Assassin's Creed: Forgotten
by Demalia
Summary: "My name is Armande de Seville, and I am not a good man." Ten years have passed since the window into Armande's life that Desmond lived. For Desmond, these events may be forgotten, but for Armande, revolutionary France is an ordeal he can never forget.
1. Chapter 1

My name is Armande de Seville, and I am not a good man.

I was born into the fold of the Assassin order, and from my childhood began to learn a love for the feeling of life slipping away between my fingers. To appreciate the delicate movement of blood from a wound, and the departure of a soul from the eyes of the dead, like fall leaves scattering in the wind and coming to rest on the autumn ground. This was my existence. I was taught to kill, but no one had to teach me to like it.

When I was a young man, my kills had become excessive, to the point of murder. For an order of Assassins to accuse one of murder is quite a monumental occaison; I was honored. However, my showmanship earned me a sentence of execution. Yet, here I am, alive. When they came for me, I left. On my way out, I sent so many of their number, so many men and women I had grown into adulthood with, to the grave that they stopped coming after me. After I had been gone over a year, I was informed my sentence had been lightened to exile. For the rest of my life.

Their pompous gall enraged me. I hated what the Assassins had become; raised on stories of Altair, Ezio Auditore and the like, I despised the weak, reticent breed our kind had become. One day, I hated it so much, I found myself planning an end for my own people.

To that end, I committed yet more unspeakable, unforgiveable crimes. I lived for almost fifteen years in my own company, needing and wanting no one to bind me down. My misadventures led me across the sea, to a country who hasn't even cut teeth yet, their birth is so new. And here, I spent nearly another decade, seeing what I could see, doing what I wanted. I find that in my age, bloodlust is less vivid than it used to be. My hatred for the Assassins, while eternal, doesn't enrage me as it once did. Perhaps age has brought wisdom. Temperance.

And perhaps you should still think twice before leaving your house alone in the night.

"You 'ave a visitor, Master Armande."

He looked up at the maid, Beth, who showed no shyness or embarassment at finding him in the bath. Armande sunk his head under the water, ignoring her.

She was still there when he surfaced, and he sighed. The woman had been his maid for four years, since his purchase of this townhouse in the lively streets of Boston, and in that time she had grown an unhealthy disregard for his antics. She planted her hands on her round, matronly hips and scowled.

"You 'eard me," she insisted. "Should I 'ave 'im wait in the parlor?"

Armande growled to himself. "Very well, Beth. Who is it?"

"I don' recognize 'im. Not from around here, I'd say. I'll 'ave him wait." And with that, she bustled out, leaving clean towels and snapping the door primly shut behind herself.

Fuming, Armande finished his bath and stepped out to stand by the fire. He had never replaced his employees, never had a need, but occasionally the prospect of making Beth disappear floated about his mind as a vague possibility. He knew he'd never do it; she was too much what he needed, as was the housekeeper and the groundsman. They lived here with him, and kept the place in working order while he was away. And he was often away.

Armande looked over at his wardrobe irritably. He had intended to go straight to bed; this evening had seen his return from a rather harrowing travel to the south, and his forty-something-year-old bones needed a bath and a bed to recover fully. One completed; he dragged on a pair of breeches, not bothering to don any other garments. The other would have to wait until this unannounced visit was seen to.

His house was quiet in the winter night. The new year had passed uneventfully, another year gone, and now spring approached. It was still cold out; to combat this, Beth and Harold, the housekeeper, fed great fires in the hearth and every fireplace in the house. It kept the chill at bay.

The double doors leading into his parlor were open, and warm firelight spilled out. Armande stalked through, expecting anything except what he saw. It was late for social visits, but the local authorities occaisionally stopped by to check in; they suspected much of him. They could prove nothing. Some servant girl or dock worker probably turned up missing, and the police had come to casually discuss the situation with him, see if he would slip up this time. That was likely it. But in his house he would find no weary-eyed police waiting, futiley, to wrest a confession from him.

He stopped dead in his tracks the moment his eyes made sense of the figure shrouded within the fire-shadows.

It was a man, indeed; familiar chest armor, spalders, greaves... the one-of-a-kind design of the vambrace on his arm and the tooled pattern along the sheath of his scimitar. The hood, pullled to his nose, it was all as much a well-known part of Armande as his own skin. But what truly told Armande the identity of his visitor was the distant, faded presence the man emanated, as if he were the shadows come to life or the incarnation of an anonymous crowd.

"What a surprise," Armande murmured, gaze locked on his visitor. They were alone; no one lurked in the shadows. It was not an ambush. Then what? Why would an Assassin have come to pay him a visit? The man moved, and the illusion of stillness was broken. He walked fluidly toward the center of the room. Armande moved forward to meet him; his unarmed state made him wary, as did his completely unarmored, barely clothed chest and vitals. But this was his house; he wouldn't back down so easily.

The Assassin reached up and pulled his hood down. It was a young man. Well... younger than Armande. His sandy blonde hair was shaggy from travel and although Armande was quite certain they had never met, he looked eerily familiar.

"Do you know me?" the Assassin asked.

Armande shook his head, not sure.

"Not surprising. My name is Leverett."

"Leverett?" Aramnde asked, frowning. "Well, haven't you grown. You weren't yet ten years old when I left the Assassins. All grown up and running errands."

Leverett didn't seem daunted. He raised an eyebrow. "Oui, it has been some time. I'm surprised you recognized me at all, with those old eyes of yours."

"Speaking of old," Armande sniped, "where is Gerard? Usually they send him to mediate to me, you'd think he was my Goddamned keeper." Armande paced toward the fireplace, drawn to its warmth.

Something in Leverett's expression twitched and softened. "Gerard is dead, Armande. He died almost four years ago."

Armande's mouth opened, then shut, at a loss. He swallowed and looked towards the fire, thinking.

What was this tightness in his chest? He swallowed again, finding his throat scratchy. Gerard had been a friend to him when he had done nothing to deserve one, standing by him since they were children. He remembered the last time he had seen him. It had been nearly nine years.

"I'm sorry," Leverett offered.

"No need," Armande replied shortly. He walked around the back of the divan situated beside the fire and settled his weight on it; he motioned for Leverett to take a seat across the coffee table on the lounge. His guest did so, silently. Armande stared into the fire for a while longer, thinking, then looked up again.

"So to what do I owe this honor?" he asked.

"Armande de Seville, the Brotherhood-"

"Beth! Harold! Thomas! Get about your own business and stop that damn eavesdropping!" Armande snapped.

A controlled flurry sounded outside the open doors, and Harold stepped in cordially.

"Apologies, sir," the old housekeeper muttered abashedly. He closed the parlor doors, closing Armande and Leverett in alone.

Leverett chuckled. "I was wondering if you were going to call them out."

"I was wondering if you were going to require me to say things that might jeapordize my secrecy," Armande returned lightly. "If we are to be discussing the Brotherhood, I suppose we will be covering topics that are better left unheard. In French, then? To my knowledge, none of them speak it well."

Leverett tipped his head in agreement.

"Qu'est-ce donc?" Armande repeated. "What has the Brotherhood come to accuse me of?"

"I've come to offer you your status back," Leverett replied. "If you choose, you are to be welcomed back into the Assassin order, in a rank afforded you by your skill and experience. Master Assassin."

Armande stilled; he watched Leverett carefully, scanning his every expression for some clue or hint of a lie or trap. There was none, but Armande was not convinced.

"What madness is this?" he murmured, almost to himself. Louder, he continued, "I've been in exile for almost twenty-five years. Damned if I go back now. I'm quite at home here in the States."

"I can see that," Leverett agreed.

"Tell me, though, why do they want me back now? What do they want from me?"

Leverett exhaled, leaning his elbows on his knees. "I won't lie to you. The stories they tell of you... you have become a legend of the Assassins. It is your legacy that keeps our enemies awake at night, clutching their daggers under their pillows."

"True, but you have yet to explain."

"France is not well," Leverett finally admitted. "In 1774, Louis XVI took throne; as you know, the Assassins sought out an agreement with him, in hopes of staving off Templar grip of France."

"As I know," Armande agreed.

"But for all the hopes we had for him, the most recent Louis has proven less than effective. The country starves, the people die of hunger and overwork. The nobles run rampant, doing as they please; all along, Louis and that empty-headed harpy Marie-Antionette ignore their country's turmoil."

"A revolution is coming," Armande finished for him.

"Yes," Leverett conceded. "You know this; you've seen it, here. America's war was over before you arrived, but still, you have lived a decade with its people. You know this world, you know the signs.

"They want you to come back, and stop it. If Louis is overthrown, our hold on France could be lost in the undertow. Things have grown desperate over the past couple years; the people have made known their grievances. You should see them, Armande, walking through... it feels like walking through a den of rabid animals. You feel eyes on you, as if they might attack at the drop of a hat.

"You are the best," Leverett stated plainly. "The situation is incredibly, nerve-wrackingly delicate. We dare not send in more than one of two of our number, and none of us know revolution as you have come to know it. If you accept, you are to travel to Paris, observe. And wait."

"Wait for what?" Armande scoffed. "Wait for them to drag Louis out of his castle to the gallows?"

"Wait for something," Leverett answered, quietly exasperated. "Wait for the next Boston tea party, watch for the next John Adams. You know what precedes the storm, and you can recognize the catalyst before it acts. If you can stop the revolution, this dangerous time of tension might pass, and give us a chance to talk sense into Louis XVI."

Armande smothered laughter. "That is your first mistake. He will not change."

"He must, because if he does not, he may find himself dead in his carriage," Leverett snapped.

A slow smile crept over Armande's face. "How it does my heart good to hear your bloodlust. Tell me, where have you been the past few years? Jerusalem? India? Egypt?"

"Egypt," Leverett agreed.

"Ah, so I thought. You have spent little time amongst our 'bretheren' in France." Armande sobered.

Go back? The thought was enticing, if only to laugh at the weak fools and pathetic swine the Brotherhood must have devolved into by now.

"Have you a place to stay tonight?" Armande asked suddenly.

"There is an inn down the way," Leverett shrugged.

"The Sleeping Seagull?"

"Oui."

"Pas, pas," Armande waved the thought away. "You will stay here. I'll have Beth make up a room."

Leverett seemed to hesitate. "Trusting, are we?"

Armande stood, "Practical, more like," he replied in English. "You know little of the world into which you have stepped. You barely speak English, for God's sake. And if you stay here, then I know you will survive the night, to hear my answer in the morning."

When Armande first came to America, he had spent over a half a year scouring the mountains beyond the populated cities, where the native savages roamed. It had been long and difficult; Armande had never spent so long in the wilderness. The woods and mountains had become his companions; they were steadfast and trustworthy in a way humans were not. Perhaps he could have spent another year and a half, alone, far from his prey and his life as an Assassin.

Until one day. Until the day he found the vault.

The description was exact. It was as if centuries hadn't shifted the landscape. He had scaled the mountain, sweating under the summer sun, until he found the lock. Upon opening it, he had entered the foyer, seen the symbols, followed the corridor. It had all been so simple.

All except the ghost... whatever presence had tailed Armande some distance down the tunnel, and disappeared before the end.

The bizarre chamber of moving stone and glass.

He had climbed the walls, row by row. Until he reached the platform, and was raised into the ceiling.

Into the chamber, smooth, black glass, shot through like veins with glowing white threads. It had nearly convinced Armande he was mad; then the pedestal, the stand on which the mysterious treasure of the Assassin order was stored for an indefinite eternity.

Empty.

Armande sat on his bed for hours into the night, mouth resting on his hands, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the wall, thinking. It was the reason he had come to this country, so far from his homeland. Find whatever fabled object rested in the vault. And use it. Cause destruction for his brother Assassins, create panic and turmoil on a level that even he could not achieve alone. Destroy them forever. Then start over...

But the vault had been empty.

The fire had burnt down to glimmering coals by the time Armande settled himself under the quilts to sleep. Go back? Back to France? Back to the very people he had spent decades despising?

They wanted to make him a Master Assassin. That would mean fully inducting him into the order, and with that full inclusion came full access to secrets. Even Armande wasn't certain of all he didn't know.

Moreover, if he went back, would the answers to the thousand questions he hounded be within reach? The origin of the chamber of black glass? The secret itself? And the vault... could he figure out why? Why the vault was so torturously empty?

The spring and summer had passed while Armande and Leverett were at sea. The ocean had been a kind and gentle presence, rarely storming, often calm. Progress back to Europe had been swift, and although the long voyage threatened to infect Armande with an unhealthy mood of cabin fever, everyone on board survived to see the day when far off on the flat blue horizon a line of earth appeared with the rising sun.

And with it, heavy storm clouds began to drift in from the east.

France. Something writhed in Armande's gut, a nervous excitement that he couldn't pinpoint the cause of.

Before he left, Armande had given Harold detailed instructions of what was to be done while he was away, how the house was to be kept, and what was to be done if he never returned.

Harold had paled, his creased face crumpling slightly in concern. "It will be done, sir. But... do try to return."

What was the possibility that Armande would never see America again? He had grown fond of it; the populace of the former colonies, they lived, actually lived, not just existed in sluggish servitude to a distant King or a distant God. The newness of their world was such that for the first time in his life, Armande didn't hate the human crowd that he secreted himself within. Not superior in intelligence or manners, perhaps, not any form of ideal, but better than what he had left behind. What he now returned to.

It was almost a week before the ship docked, the land drifting, teasingly out of reach but growing slowly closer everyday.

They made port in La Rochelle. Armande had not been here for years even before he left France; what a different city it had become.

It was as if the world had become a monotone. Gray, dirty citizens moved about gray, dirty buildings through gray, dirty streets. Perhaps it had never been lively, per se, but this was not what Armande had dragged out of memory of this place. And of the people's eyes, Leverett had not lied. There was a tight, straining air of restlessness, dark and gray as the streets it swept through. As if everyone merely waited the signal to claw out of their peasant disguises and... and what? Armande couldn't say. There was an anger here, not indignation, just fury. No righteous denial of injustice. Just a palpable thirst for blood.

Armande's hand struggled to rest constantly on the hilt of his bastard sword. He was no lightweight, had fought his share of unfair numbers. But he didn't like this at all.

"When do we leave?" he asked.

"The ship from the order isn't here," Leverett answered. "Fichu..."

"Then let's find a place to stay," Armande growled. "We... we have to get off these streets."

Leverett nodded. He and Armande wandered up the main avenue from the docks, avoiding eye contact. Everywhere, sunken, dull eyes traced over their tailored armor, finely crafter weapons, and well-cared for clothes. Armande's spine could have been made of steel; his every muscle was tense with whatever miasma haunted these people.

A racket shattered Armande and Leverett's steady heartbeats and echoed at their backs. No sooner had they turned to look when a carriage barreled past, sending peasants scattering out of its path. Back on the cobbled street in its wake, one small peasant had not been fast enough. The child's battered body was sprawled, bloody, where it had fallen. A man looked on with horror in his eyes; Armande assumed it was the child's father.

Instead of scooping up his dead son, the man took off in full tilt after the carriage. A feral scream of a madman ripped through the air after him as he chased down the carriage, throwing rocks, fruit, anything he could pick up on the go at the receding vehicle.

"Oh, no," Leverett muttered. "He mustn't do that- someone needs to stop him."

"Why?" Armande asked with a digusted click of his tongue. "His child has just been slain. Does he not have the right to seek justice?"

"No," Leverett shook his head as he spoke. "No, no, not again..."

The carriage had stopped not far up the street. And then there were guards.

They snatched up the dead child's father, and though he struggled and cursed and screamed his emaciated limbs were no match for those of the better-fed soldiers. As a pompous shrieking nobleman descended from the carriage among a mob of city guardsmen that had appeared, they began to drag the peasant, still fighting like a wildman, down the silent street.

"Where are they taking him?" Armande asked, already knowing. The two Assassins retreated into the shadows of an alley close by, watching the disruption unfold.

"The gallows," Leverett replied darkly.

"Why?" Armande's gut twisted, blood pounded through his head like a migraine. He followed the line of Leverett's glare; the nobleman whose carriage had murdered the child strutted after the rabble.

"I don't know," Leverett growled. "I really, truly do not."

The noise of the struggle was the only sound; dozens of eyes watched in savage silence. Armande tore his disbelieving gaze from the execution. The people of La Rochelle had lost any semblance of humanity. They stared in animal fixation, as if there was nothing else. Perhaps there was not. Not certain he wanted to know, Armande shifted his eyes into those of the Eagle.

Veins of red laced like ribbons through the dying auras of the mass.

"Let's just find a damn room." Armande spun on his heel and walked away, away, down the alley but not fast enough to escape the sound of a bloody tide rising.

Leverett returned to his room at the inn later that night after sitting with Armande for some hours in the tavern below. It was a mostly empty place, and silent. Even in a bar, it was as if all were watching an invisible clock. Waiting.

Silence answered him now; as he walked across the dark room, ears sharp for the sounds of an unlucky intruder or an ambitious thief attempting to rob him. There were none; stillness as thick and peaceful as the city was tense coated the shadows as Leverett struck a flint to the candle he had been required to purchase from the innkeeper.

"Have you read this?"

Leverett's heart made a break for his rib cage and nearly made it out. Glaring, he turned to see Armande comfortably stretched out on his bed, a worn old book in one hand and the other arm folded behind his head. He didn't look at Leverett, busy perusing the page he held the volume open to.

"You have your own room!" Leverett snapped. "Read what?"

"This," Armande flipped the book closed and held it out for Leverett to take, which, after a moment's irritable hesitation, he did.

"Le Contrat Sociale," Leverett read, as if that alone would satisfy his unwelcome guest. He looked again. The Social Contract, by Jean-Jacque Rousseau. Leverett flipped it open and skimmed a few pages, growing more interested.

"If you're looking for France's John Adams or Boston Tea Party, likewise you had best keep your eye open for their Thomas Paine, as well," Armande flipped his legs over the side of the bed and rested his elbows on them. "A revolution is nothing without its ideals. It is lucky that most of the populace cannot read; if the ideas of men like this Rousseau were more widespread in the Third Estate, stopping whatever is coming next would be out of the question."

"Do we take him out?" Leverett asked, closing the book with a practical snap. Armande grinned, predatory as a wolf.

"I do appreciate your love of the kill, Leverett," he chuckled.

Leverett's face flattened, impassive. "Not love, just respect. I understand that killing him may be necessary. Is it?"

Armande shook his head as he stood. "No. The book is aleady out, already in the hands of people like the poor clerk I liberated it from. No need to track down someone who has already put in the damage that they might."

Armande plucked Le Contrat Sociale from Leverett's hand and sat back on the bed. Leverett exhaled, annoyed.

"Why sneak into my room to tell me this? Why not just tell me downstairs, or if you needed privacy, why not just ask for it?"

Armande snickered as he opened the book again and continued to skim. "Why, I wanted to test you, of course. By the way, you failed."

Leverett leveled a glare that went unnoticed. He sat beside Armande on the bed, inching as far from him as possible without tumbling over the edge. If there had been a chair or desk in his room, that would have been preferable to keep some distance, but there was not; like everything in this town, the rooms of the inn were skeletally bare.

"What is it?" Leverett asked. He snorted, smirking. "Unless you were just looking for some companionship."

"Don't be silly, Leverett," Armande replied without missing a beat. "It's already been taken care of. Just feeding some cash into the economy- don't tell me you're holding out?"

There was no point in responding; Leverett tried again. "What do you want?"

Armande snapped Le Contrat Sociale shut. "I want to know the truth of what's happening here."

Leverett frowned. "What are you on about, now?"

"There's been someone following us most of the day, and I want to know who," Armande stared at Leverett, waiting, vaguely threatening with his still directness. Sensing the danger, Leverett shook his head.

"I know nothing of it. Truth be told, I didn't notice we were followed. Some Assassin I am... But I swear to you, I don't know."

Armande tapped the book in his hands thoughtfully; Leverett spoke only the truth. It was depressingly plain on his crystal-clear face. Perhaps Leverett's pretenses and ability to decieve were better than Armande could detect. It was a doubtful prospect.

"I believe you." Armande sighed and opened Le Contrat Sociale again, only to re-close it moments later. "Tell me of the state of affairs here. Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette... the Austrian princess, correct? What of the clergy? Are the nobles the same? Are there any figures of note? What of the Controller-General, of finances? Is it Necker, still?"

"I-I have limited knowledge of the affairs of France," Leverett admitted. "I had been in Egypt for over two years when I was contacted to find you. I could explain in great detail the politics of the Pharaoh and the Temple of Rah, but I'm afraid I had little chance to catch up on local affairs on my way through to America."

Armande froze, book halfway to the hand he had been absently tapping it against. He resumed his mindless twitch a heartbeat later.

"Interesting." He explained no further. "And the Assassin Order? Theroigne will have been dead for years now. She was ancient when I left. Who now heads the Council?"

"Richellou," Leverett answered. "It was he who sent for me. There are a couple new faces on the Council, ones I don't recognize. I believe they are from eastern Europe."

"Peut-etre," Armande agreed. "Leverett, I had little to say on the subject on the journey over the sea. In truth I didn't really care to know. But what state is the Brotherhood in? Stronger, or weaker than when I left it?"

Leverett made a non-committal gesture, shrugging. "Who's to say? Relatively, that question could be answered a number of ways. And after all, I was only a child when you left. How can I be a good judge?"

Armande just watched him blankly.

"Weaker," Leverett confessed. "Like moonlight on the wane. Coming back from Egypt, where our order is strong, I was appalled."

Armande snorted. "As I thought," he muttered, turning back to the book.

"Well, hopefully you will soon see for yourself," Leverett replied. "With luck, the schooner will arrive tomorrow, or at least word of it will."

"Even if it does not, we must leave," Armande stated. Not suggested, just stated. "I grow curious; if a small town such as this languishes as it does, what of Marseilles? What of Paris? What's going on in bigger cities, where politics stagnate?" Armande stood impatiently, as if suddenly he would hurry out the door onto the road, onto other destinations. Alarmed, Leverett stood with him, not sure what he would do if Armande did take off.

Instead of tapping the book, Armande now took to flipping the pages, not even lookng at them, just mindlessly flipping them as if for the sake of the sound it produced.

"There is one other thing I have been wondering." Armande swallowed; it was the only indication of his unease. Suddenly, his hands on Le Contrat Sociale were still, as were his anxious feet and expression. The tension that had been building vanished suddenly, and Leverett had to admit awe at the mastery of his own presence that Armande commanded.

Especially since Leverett suspected he knew what was coming next.

"I want to know about the Touveilles girl." Armande's face showed barely a flicker of emotion, as if he were asking about the weather or the details of their budget.

If he hadn't expected this, Leverett might have lost his cool. He might have done something stupid. As it was, he reigned in his own thoughts on the subject and replied, just as calmly, "The one you raped and left to raise your child alone?"

"That's the one," Armande answered. The barest hint of warning showed through the calm face, and Leverett knew his restrained, scathing tone had not gone unnoticed. He abandoned the charade, glaring, seething, at Armande. "None of your damn business," Leverett hissed. "If there is one thing I am sure of, it is that you will see little of Dahlia during your stay. She, quite understandably, wants nothing to do with you."

"And you know this?" Armande teased, smirking at Leverett's fury. "Are you certain there is nothing she wants to say to me? No pleas to give her child legitimacy?"

Leverett was so shocked that Armande would even suggest such a thing, he just stood in open-mouthed, wordless rage for long enough that Armande grew tired of waiting and walked to the door, stifling a yawn.

"You really are a bastard," Leverett sputtered out finally.

Armande just laughed. Laughed, and shut the door behind himself. And Leverett could still hear him laughing, receding down the hall back to his own room.

Leverett struck out at the wall, wishing to relieve some of the tension in his spine and muscles that Armande had caused. He hoped the ship came tomorrow. He doubted that a road trip with Armande de Seville would progress well. Not now that Armande knew how to needle him.


	2. Chapter 2

Leverett was in luck. Although, it was a mixed blessing.

The next day saw the arrival of his and Armande's escort of Assassins. But instead of arriving by sea, the small group rode into La Rochelle on horses, amid plenty of uneasy stares.

Armande in question was nowhere to be found. Leverett went out to meet the others alone, cursing the damned freelancer and wondering what explanation he would offer as to where his charge might be, when he had already sent word ahead that Armande had agreed to come back with him.

Sure as the brisk sea wind, the first words out of their mouths were as expected.

"Well, where is he?"

Leverett made a gesture of "anywhere" with both hands and shrugged. The Assassins exchanged glances and dismounted.

The senior-most Assassin handed her reins off, and drew Leverett aside.

"He did agree to come back, did he not?"

"Oui, oui. He's here, somewhere, he probably just ran off with some prostitute or went to drown some children or some such thing."

The flat look she gave him in return clearly communicated how poorly his humor was recieved. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

Leverett cringed. "No doubt, he's rubbing off on me."

With a last hard look, shot out from under her hood, she turned and headed towards the entrance to the inn, not bothering to wait to see him follow. "We have orders not to linger. Too many of us have come as it is, but Richellou wanted to be certain."

"Certain of what?"

"That we would safely outnumber him," she replied dryly. She sighed, "We invite our biggest failure in two hundred years to come back into our ranks, to what end, I cannot imagine... But forgive me, I speak too much."

Leverett didn't answer; perhaps she had said too much, but it was no more or less than what was on everyone's mind, of late.

As they swept inside out of the seaside chill, Leverett stayed close to the lead Assassin's side. "What of the ship? Are we not supposed to take the sea route back?"

"No longer," she answered. "The royal navy is out in force, and there is not enough traffic in merchants or traders to hide behind that ruse. We would have stood out on the horizon like a parrot in a flock of seagulls."

"The royal navy? Back from America? But on the journey across the sea, I only spotted one ship, and that close to the continent. Don't tell me they beat us back?"

She stopped and gave him a steady, appraising stare. Under her hood, Leverett thought he saw a wry, humorless smirk. "And you cannot guess the nature of the forces left behind?"

Leverett didn't answer. Doubtless, the sudden chill in his blood showed on his face, and gave her all the reply she required. Templars.

"What news?" Leverett asked instead when the small group, seven in all, had settled inside at a pair of tables in the back of the tavern. "He asks of the state of things, what the politics of France have come to, and for such simple inquiries, I feel most inadequate not having an answer. We are not too late, surely?"

"No," another Assassin answered quietly. "There is still some time, we think. Political uprisings have flared here and there, but nothing serious. Nothing... dangerous."

"Glad to hear it."

As one, four at the table jumped and the remaining three struggled to settle their upset hearts at Armande's sudden reappearance. He stood beside their tables like a great bat, looming on just the far side of ominous. Enough to create the effect of foreboding. Leverett was not impressed.

"Where have you been?"

"About," Armande replied, holding up a winebottle in each hand. "Just out remembering the few reasons I missed France."

"You were out drinking?" Leverett was instantly appalled, and glanced around at the other assassins at the table, wondering what concluding explanation they would come to, since he knew well that none was forthcoming from Armande.

For his part, Armande took a swig from one bottle and offered it around.

"I'll take some," the woman Assassin in charge conceded tiredly.

Within the hour, they were on the road. By some unspoken agreement, it seemed pertinent to get out of La Rochelle with all due haste; even Armande silently agreed. This didn't, however, curb his damned tongue for the hours of daylight remaining that they spent riding. He seemed even more obnoxious than normal, as if he were putting forth a conscious push to completely fray the waning patience of all.

In fact, before the evening was out, Leverett was completely sure of it.

"So, you've got a woman, do you not?"

The Assassin he spoke to had recently ceased to offer any reply. This, naturally, incited Armande to even further efforts to splinter his straight face. Armande thought with exaggerated expression for several moments, and tension visibly seeped into the muscles of his victim's shoulders and back.

"She pretty?"

No response, of course.

"She's a wildebeest, then?"

Still, no response, though the careful lack of emotion on the Assassin's face contorted momentarily. Leverett could have groaned; there was no better fuel for Armande's snide sense of humor than to try to ignore him. Though, this effort was impressive. Even during the long months at sea, Leverett hadn't seen Armande work this hard at infuriating anyone for sheer entertainment.

"Well," Armande finally steered his horse away from the younger man's, with another shrug. "I'll see soon enough, I suspect."

There was a flurry of motion as the Assassin leapt from his horse and attempted to wrest Armande to the ground. Without apparent concern, Armande flipped him over his own shoulders and off the other side, shoving away the hidden blade that had been aimed at his ribcage.

Chaos ensued. Which, Leverett knew, with the sigh of a harassed parent who had no choice but to take their child into the market, was exactly what Armande wanted. Why he was so intent on making life a trial for everyone around himself, that was the real mystery.

"Has he been this way the entire journey?"

The lead Assassin had sidled her mare nearer to Leverett's, and spoke now in an undertone. Leverett shook his head.

"Not this bad, at least."

She didn't reply.

"Well, this is a surprise."

Armande sat away from the others. They lay in the dark, no campfire, two awake whilst the others slept. It was silently agreed that Armande would be excluded from sentry duties; regardless, he sat awake, thinking. And now, he was joined by the senior Assassin of the team, a woman he recognized only when she pullled back her low hood.

"Manon," he greeted with a smile. "It has been a long time."

She snorted in response, taking a seat beside him, unconcerned. "It has been a long time since I had to endure your cursed forked tongue. Don't patronize me."

Armande wordlessly turned away to stare into the darkness. Manon doubted he watched anything in particular; as a teenager, it was sometimes possible to catch him staring this way, transfixed like a wolf on his prey of nothing but the distance. Now, it seemed, he didn't care if he was caught or ignored.

"Let me be frank, Armande," she began, gazing off at her own patch of the night. "I don't know why you are being brought back. At least, not the real reason. Hopefully, you haven't grown so foolish or arrogant in these past twenty years to accept whatever flimsy excuses for your return you were offered."

"Pas," Armande argued, "perhaps foolishness and arrogance are why I have been brought back. If not my own foolishness and arrogance, then maybe those of someone else."

"Is that why you have been testing us?" Manon raised an eyebrow. "To gage our sound tempers? I daresay you were less levelheaded than even these upstarts you so easily teased into your little traps."

Armande smirked, and she knew she had touched on truth.

"You needn't bother with further examinations," she continued. "It is your way, I know, to push until something breaks, but perhaps some subtley will do you better in this instance. I won't waste a moment's pity on you, but the way you work, I wouldn't be surprised if you die within the month."

Silence returned, flowing in the space between them while Manon waited for Armande's response.

He chuckled. "You think so little of me. But I admit that I have rarely heard you speak so many words at once; the Manon I recall had little to say to anyone, much less I."

"And you must think little of me, to assume your charade is so undetected."

"Charade?"

Manon looked at him then, evenly, with just a slight edge of warning. "Don't think your real motives are unsuspected. We aren't all the fools you take us for."

Armande met her eyes without difficulty. "And to what do you allude?"

Her reply was curt. "You left for a reason, Armande. And I know you return for one, as well. I wonder if it is the same one?"

His eyes wandered back to the distant fields. "Who is to say?

Manon stood slowly, staring at him, daring him to elaborate, or do anything at all, for that matter. He did not, and she left him watching the darkness in peace.

The remainder of the trip was peaceful, as well. Armande spontaneously decided he had nothing to say to his travelling companions for the following weeks, to the combined relief and unease of all.

The complex of the French Assassin branch was part natural, part architectural wonder. The original builders, centuries ago, had taken sea caves on the western coast of France and dug in, carving and sculpting a massive fortress and city in itself that was only fractionally visible from the sea. From the coast, a weather eye could pick out the massive outer facade, the Balcony, and the doors to the Great Hall that opened onto the beach, but only just. Never in the dark, and not from a great distance. The most an average sailor might happen across by chance would be the sight of a narrow corridor, a canyon of rocky sea cliffs, yawning unknown distances into the earth, but may never guess that not a far way back the canyon widened and pooled into a generous inland bay, hollowed out years ago to be a hive-like center of life and harbor for the assassins, accessible only to their small, pratical ships and by foot- and horsepaths leading in from the land. The Ainsi, it was called. The Well, from which the Assassins of this land poured forth.

Armande de Seville had few fond memories of this place, but said nothing to his travelling companions as they descended down into the harbor, then to the stables. He said nothing, gave no indication at all of his thoughts, only pulled further across his nose the hood of his cloak. There were eyes upon him; Armande could feel from all sides he was watched, like an actor in a great amphitheater to an audience peering from curiously open windows and darting out of sight with stolen glances at the outcast.

"This way," Manon directed him to the back of the stables, past yet more curious stares and shocked expressions. To his disappointment, Armande saw too many faces he recognized. Too many faces that recognized his face. He followed Manon, flanked by unspeaking assassins, to the open stalls at the back. Armande locked his gaze securely on a spot at the back wall, refusing to look down, to meet anyone's eyes.

He dismounted as soon as possible, eager to drop out of visual range. Hidden by the wood walls of his horse's stall, he huffed, stroking the animal's hair. The horse shook out his neck, communicating clearly his wish that Armande remove his saddle and bit, not in the least concerned about anyone else's troubles.

My kind of creature, Armande chuckled to himself, and proceeded to unload the beast's tack.

"Leave it." Manon had appeared at the door to his stall. "A hostler will handle the tack and the horse. You're expected in the Council Room."

A knot twisted in Armande's stomach, part anxiety, part thrill. He ignored Manon, and meticulously unwound the cinch, taking his time to carefully remove every piece of equipment correctly and set it aside. Manon was not amused, nor did his deliberate time-wasting go unnoticed. But, as she as wont to do, she stood with unmatchable patience until he had put away every concievable object and groomed the horse. He even fetched hay and water for it, enjoying the confusion his actions sowed among the lookers-on. Armande, murderous renegade, a horse-lover? Surely, the straight face he maintained could only mangle their opinions further.

"It has long been a tenant of our way of life to care for one's own responsibilities," he reminded Manon with a smirk when he finally picked up his traveling pack and followed her out of the stables. A crowd of assassins had gathered at this point. They followed at a distance, whispering. Not quietly enough, however.

"That's him..."

"...can practically taste the bloodlust..."

"...doesn't look that old..."

"He's the one?"

"The one who raped Dahlia..."

At that, he froze.

The second he realized he had unconsciously reacted, Armande grew furious and spun around.

A few of his watchers openly scattered, dashing for doorways and corners. Most stopped, watching him in return, standing their ground. They knew they had numbers on their side. What they did not realize was that numbers would not save them.

"Armande."

His glare shot to Leverett, who had appeared at Manon's side. The younger assassin shook his head slightly.

Instantly, Armande was back under control. He couldn't remember the last time he had nearly lost it so badly, and it unnerved him that such a simple, casual mention of... her, could upset him so. Perhaps he had hoped they had forgotten, somewhere in the back of his mind.

He stalked ahead of Manon and Leverett, remembering clearly the way. The Council Room was one of the few halls in the Ainsi whose windows faced the sea, overlooking the Balcony, a spacious stretch of stone veranda that fronted the beach two stories up from sea level. From the stables, it was a long trek through most of the complex to reach it. But Armande had not forgotten; every hall, every floor, every view from every window he remembered, slowly recalling bits and pieces of his life that he had preferred to leave behind.

As he went, Manon and Leverett began to detect a detour from the path that led to the Council Room. Manon called out to stop Armande, at the same time that he stopped of his own accord.

The Library. Armande studied the doors quietly, ignoring the dozen onlookers watching him, some with alarm, some with confusion, but all with interest. His face was unknown here to many, so panic was averted. Not for long.

"Armande, there will be time later," Leverett advised, in as low a tone as possible. "Surely, you can't intend to study now?"

"No, surely not," Armande agreed, ignoring Leverett, staring through the open doors at the floor of the Library. He walked forward slowly. Leverett grew uneasy, having an idea what he was doing, but lost as to what he was looking for.

Armande followed the trail that wound loosely through the bookcases. The Assassins around him glowed blue, varying in intensity, but he ignored them. He knew what he was looking for, for better or worse.

The gold footsteps wound around a corner, and he could see a brilliant gold form through the books, just on the other side of the aisle. He knew Leverett and Manon were close behind, but didn't care. He let his Eagle sense fade and followed the path around the bookshelf, to a girl he hadn't seen in nearly ten years.

She turned, and Armande stifled disappointment. It wasn't her.

Her eyes widened, recognizing him, and suddenly it clicked, and he saw Dahlia Touveilles.

Armande stared, confused. She was a completely different girl. A different woman. He hadn't recognized her at all at first. Dahlia, however, had no such difficulty.

He waited for the fear to flood back. He waited to see the horror, the empty, washed-out, heart-broken horror return to her face as it had that night years prior. Armande didn't know why he needed to see it; but knowing that sooner or later he would have to face her again, he preferred sooner.

When she didn't respond for too long, Armande found himself speaking; he didn't recall deciding to do so.

"Good to see you again," he offered. He meant it to be snarky, as per norm. Somehow, his voice didn't cooperate, and his salutation came out half greeting, half apology. Apology for what? That, also, was indeterminable.

Dahlia stared at him an eerily long time. No fear, no anger, not even tears. Her lips pursed in what Armande clearly identified as annoyance, and she looked around. Confused, Armande did the same.

Faces peeked around corners and through bookshelves everywhere. Fury boiled in Armande's chest, fury at being seen so... unprepared? Or maybe just fury that this meeting had to be spied on.

Dahlia looked back at him, and raised her eyebrows. "I wish I could say the same."

She closed the book she had been browsing and walked away with it without a backward glance.

His arm was suddenly jerked painfully back, but Armande already knew who it was and was more interested in watching Dahlia's retreating figure. He was intrigued; it was as if he had never raped her. It was as if she had forgotten completely, or just didn't care. Was that normal? It seemed bizarre that such a thing would just blow over like a bad storm.

"What are you doing?" Leverett demanded, enraged. Armande appraised him numbly, not really certain why he was so angry.

"Saying hello to an old acquaintence," he replied. He brushed off Leverett's hand pointedly.

"An old-!" Leverett took several deep breaths. He was going red in the face, and had to consciously step away from Armande and regain composure.

"We must go," Manon stated plainly. If she was upset by Armande's behavior, she didn't show it. "The Council has been called, and they await your presence."

Armande nodded, with a final glance in the direction Dahlia had disappeared. One final glance, like a wolf who knew the trail was too cold to follow, at present, at least. "Very well."

"Armande de Seville."

It wasn't precisely a greeting. Armande walked, alone, across the floor of the Council Room. It more resembled a courtroom; a raised bench at the far end, underneath the great, glassless windows that let in the sea air, would normally seat the nine council members. The practice of keeping a council instead of one Grand Master had arisen in the last century or so, as a result that after the death of Ezio Auditore no one could decide on his replacement.

Flanking the council bench along the high walls were rows of seats. It was a testament to the interconnected equality of Assassin life, that any who wished should be allowed to sit in and listen or give their opinion on matters that the Council had brought forth for discussion. Today, the stone practically groaned under the weight of what must have been half the Ainsi, though no meeting had been officially called. Doubtless, no one had a good reason to miss the most curious event of the year. The return of Armande de Seville.

Amused, Armande smirked as he walked.

"Well, well," he replied, walking forward to meet a man he knew too well at the door set into the base of the councillors' bench. "I have been gone a long time, Richellou, if you have ascended to a seat on the Council. High Councillor, no less." If Richellou was surprised that Armande had bothered to gather information on the state of Brotherhood, it didn't show on his aging face. He just glared, grimacing, as if it caused him physical pain to see Armande in this place once again.

As Armande remembered, Richellou had been a peon. If there was anyone with any more power, dominance, social standing, or even a louder voice than he, Richellou had always been one to curb his own tongue to the deferment of someone else. Not submissive, exactly. More like, backing down in irritation when he didn't have the balls to stand up. Passive-agressive. Armande had found Richellou tedious and pathetic. Today, it seemed, few shared this opinion.

For himself, Richellou stood impatiently, annoyance clear on his face as he waited. He was obviously about to say something, likely a demand that Armande shut up and show proper respect for the Council. He decided against it, though; Armande could see in his eyes the nervousness at having Armande come so close. Armande stifled a delighted chuckle.

"And so, I have returned," he began theatrically. "I suppose you have some things to discuss with me."

"You have heard correctly." Richellou offered no other explanation as he turned and led Armande into the Council's private meeting chamber. Armande didn't have to glance back to know that Manon, Leverett, and every other Assassin in the place watched him disappear through the annex. The door to the Council Room swung shut after them. Armande knew it was weighed to do so; still, it sent an involuntary shiver up his arms.

The private chamber was unassuming. A round table in the center served as a meeting area and desk, and simple couches and divans settled around the walls offered an alternative if a meeting dragged on too long. Today, half the councillor's were seated on the far side of the table; the others stood behind them or sat on the couches further back. They had visibly, and none too diplomatically, set a boundary between themselves and Armande. This should have been offensive, but Armande somehow was struggling to retain a straight face.

Armande's eyes scanned over the Council. They sat silently, sullenly, unanimously making no secret of their desire that he not be here. Leverett was correct; there were a couple new faces, and a couple that had risen through the ranks of the Ainsi. Half the Council was the same. One face, however, shining with a remarkable caliber of soul-searing hatred, caught Armande's eye.

He smiled warmly, despite the chill in his gut. "Madame Touveilles."

"Don't speak to me, filth," she snapped.

"Armande, you will hold your tongue," Richellou cut in, biting off every word as if each gave him an ulcer.

Armande said nothing, merely meeting Richellou's eyes with a canine grin. He obeyed, but with such a smug, defiant air that he may as well have laughed out loud. Without asking, he pulled out an empty chair and dropped into it.

A twitching vein bulged out of one Councillor's forehead, but he said nothing.

"Armande," an older Councillor began, calmly, without accusation. Her voice didn't waver, and Armande recognized her from the time before he was exiled. "Leverett has explained the situation?"

"To an extent," Armande answered, crossing his legs comfortably and settling into the chair.

"To what extent?" she pressed. "Tell us what you know, so far, and we will go from there."

Armande chewed on the prospect for a minute or two. He didn't like being the first to show his hand. But, after all, he didn't have to tell them everything.

"France flounders," Armande paused, phrasing. "Louis XVI has proven incompetent and let's the people grow angry. He thinks he can withstand them, but you fear otherwise. Your own relations with Louis are weak, perhaps growing weaker every year, and you suspect he no longer has loyalty to whatever agreement he is bound to you by. Moreover, where the government fails, firebrands and rebel-rousers arise, and the people are moving inexorably towards a conflict that you fear will destroy what control you weild in France.

"You have no one else to send," Armande finished slowly, setting his eyes on each of the councillors in turn. "You have no one, but me, assuming that my experiences in America will prove useful in preventing revolution here."

Silent nodding answered him.

Armande sat up, no longer comfortable reclining like a vagrant; few of the councillors showed any anger now, as if resigned. He rested his elbows on the table and rested his lips on his folded hands.

"You are willing to take me back."

The statement hung like smoke in the air. The councillors exchanged one last glance, knowing there was no choice, and nodded.

Eliane's composure cracked then, and she jerked to her feet suddenly. All eyes snapped to her, but she did nothing, merely stood, as if she couldn't abide to sit still any longer. She met no one's eyes; eventually, they all returned to Armande.

"Yes," the woman councillor, Justine, Armande remembered, answered him. She folded her delicate, aged hands in her lap. "The crimes you have committed in the past are not forgotten-"

"I have no intention of serving a sentence of any kind," Armande interrupted softly. His smirk and haughty attitude had vanished; eyes of cold steel flashed across the table, daring any of them to contradict. He was still as a dead winter's night, and none could hold the stare he shot at them. Justine nodded again.

"I think it would be wise for us all to let it go," she agreed.

"Do not think this gives you a free leash," Richellou cut in, stepping forward. He moved around the table until he stood closest to Armande. He leveled a glare into Armande's eyes, and it was quite clear that he was attempting to assert some form of superiority. Amused again, Armande rested an elbow on the table and leaned his head agaisnt it, playing bored. Richellou noted the insolence, and didn't back away.

"You will stay here, in the Ainsi, until we know for certain where you are to go."

"It will be Paris," Armande yawned.

Richellou was unmoved. "Our informants are not so certain."

"It will be Paris." There was no question in his voice, and little aggression. Armande merely repeated the statement.

Richellou ignored him. "We have quarters made up for you. You will be shown them later, after our meeting."

"I will try not to disturb anyone."

This took them all off guard; no longer completely sure of Armande's intention, as the violent rebellion in his eyes had faded to a calm acceptance, Richellou continued warily.

"While you stay-"

"With any... sounds," Armande finished devilishly.

Eliane threw herself back into her chair. It wasn't clear why; she may merely have wanted to put herself in a more difficult position from which to launch herself across the table in an aerial attack. Armande smiled pleasantly; Dahlia's mother refused to look at him, visibly managing her breaths to prevent some form of heart failure.

Richellou himself was growing somewhat red in the face. Unlike Eliane, however, he kept his calm and plowed forward with his speech.

"While you are here, you are free to do as you like. Within reason." The last was pointedly emphasized, and Armande grinned. If Eliane had a heart attack now, it might be trouble, so he resisted the urge to push her over the edge. "All we have is yours to use, as a member of the Brotherhood. As a," even Richellou's metal determination not to give way to Armande's obnoxious behavior wavered as he spoke; he had to force the next words out, "Master Assassin. The stables, the practice arena, the armory, the Library, which, I'm told, you have already shown some interest in today," his light glare suggested that he knew what had transpired less than an hour ago; Armande wondered if Eliane did, "is open to you. There is one condition and one only."

"Oh?"

"Stay away from Dahlia," Richellou leaned down, resting his hands on the table warningly. "Dahlia Touveilles is to be left alone. If any word reaches me that you have tried to contact her, or harassed her in any way, our deal is off."

Armande's eyes flicked over to Eliane; finally, she was watching him, a tinge of triumph in a face that was doused in hatred. No doubt, this condition was largely her doing. Armande cocked his head to one side slightly.

"I may not see my child? Not even once?" The haughtiness, the ruthless confidence was subdued now, and his tone bordered on the polite. Bordered, but somehow just couldn't cross.

"Unless you can visit the land of the dead," Richellou replied, standing straight again and staring down at Armande, expressionless. "Dahlia rid herself of your bastard before he was even born."

Armande blinked.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

No one breathed.

For a span of time that could have been an hour, he sat perfectly still, one arm resting on the Council table, dark brown eyes boring into Richellou's skull. Searching, scanning. Testing for a lie. Richellou stared back.

Finally, Armande dropped his eyes.

"Very well," he conceded, watching the table. "Dahlia will not see me again."

Unconsciously, the councilllors breathed at once, and the combined sound was embarassingly obvious.

"But as to the matter at hand, I have some things of my own to bring to light," Armande continued; he dug through the rucksack he had carried in with him. "Sit down, Richellou. This will not be short."

Upon the table, Armande spread a sheaf of parchments like playing cards, and waited for the Councillors to grow curious enough to take them. When they did, it was discovered that each contained a detailed report, and was headed with a name, of a place or person. Louis XVI, Versailles, Maximilian Robespierre, and others.

"I considered writing them in code, but why bother," Armande reclined in his chair agian, and folded his hands over his abdomen with a catlike grin.

"Let's talk politics."

It was nearly midnight before Armande returned to his rooms. 'Room' was a more accurate portrayal; there was only one, bedroom, study, all rolled in together. Compared to the other suites in the massive Assassin complex, his was modest. He snorted derisively; just another way that they tried to keep him in his place.

Someone, a maid no doubt, had already been in to light the fire, bring in towels and water for a bath, and close the window against the brisk autumn chill. Armande closed and locked the door, not that it would have made a difference anyway, and moved toward the bed, pulling at the clasps of his cloak as he went.

A shadow shifted on the far side of the bed, behind the curtains. This was far from a shocking. Bored already, Armande readied his hidden blade and took a step towards the hidden intruder; to his surprise, his uninvited guest stepped out from hiding on her own accord.

It was Dahlia.

A flood of thoughts accosted him at once. His eyes shot to the door, to the windows, wondering if this was a set up. Dahlia just stood there, quiet, staring at him. Finally, Armande scoffed and did his best to belittle his apprehension.

"You needn't play such an intricate game if you wish to get me killed for attacking you again. You need only tell the councillors that I have, once again, snuck into your bedchambers and they'll take up arms without question."

Dahlia still didn't reply. Annoyed, Armande studied her, as she seemed to be doing to him. She certainly had grown since 1779. The skinny adolescent limbs he had so easily pinned down had fleshed out to be muscular, sturdy parts of a deadly whole. She had gotten taller, though not by a great deal, and her body... that also had matured nicely. Most striking, however, was her face, her eyes, perfect drops of hazel in a swath of porcelain skin. She was calmer, steadier than she had been back then, even though presently she seemed nervous.

When she went without speaking for an irritatingly long pause, Armande snapped at her.

"What do you want?"

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

A flash of mortification colored her face and she cleared her throat.

"I've come to inquire after your health, of course," she snapped back. "How are you, in your old age?"

Armande's mouth dropped open, both infuriated and wincing from the stab to his ego. In fact, the long sea journey had greatly bothered his back. But damned if he was going to tell her that.

"Just fine," he spat. The inadequacy of his reply frustrated him more than her initial barb, and he resisted the urge to pull out his pistol and shoot her. "What do you want? I've had a long day and don't have the patience to chat up old times."

Dahlia flushed with embarassment this time, and Armande refused to let himself regret the comment. She visibly brought herself under control and glared flatly at him.

"That is exactly why I've come, as a matter of fact; it's damn difficult enough to get a private word in edgewise, in this place, I wouldn't bother if it wasn't important." She stalked closer to him, but seemed unable to cross the last few steps to get in his face. Instead, she kept her distance, chin gracefully high and undaunted. "I've come to discuss the last bit of atonement you owe me."

Armande, serious now, met her eyes. They were steady and direct, and he thought he knew what she wanted.

"You want to kill me, is that it?" he growled. He scoffed again, and shook his head. "You don't have what it takes to kill me. All the youth in the world can't make up for what I can do."

She laughed then. "What makes you think I give a damn whether you live or die? It matters not to me."

Confused but unwillingly to reveal it, Armande stepped closer to the fire, still watching Dahlia, inviting her to continue. She did, echoing his steps across the room until she stood a pace or two way from him again.

"I've come here to tell you I'm not afraid of you anymore." Her tone had levelled, as had her expression, betraying no ounce of deception, no sway of indecision. Simple fact. "It is the last thing I need from you. The last thing before I can leave it completely and forget."

Shoulder resting against the stonework of the fireplace, Armande could do nothing but stare. Where had this woman come from? Her features were similar, but she was not the same creature he had forced himself upon almost a decade earlier. A few minutes of silence passed, which was spent by each sizing up the other. Finally, Dahlia rested a hand on the mantle and spoke again.

"I thought I was done for, you know." Dahlia went on listlessly, leaning against the other side of the fireplace. "You did what you did and left and didn't care. I could have withered away and let my life fade, but when I realized you had absolutely no thought for what you had done..." she had to pause and collect herself, "when I realized you didn't care at all, I knew I would have to. I would have to step up and drag myself back to my feet. Mother helped... some. My sister was a godsend. She was always there when I didn't know what to do with this baby you had left me with. But she couldn't have saved me. No one could have. No one except me, and I did." She stared up into Armande's eyes; he was so transfixed, he found that even though the direct, accusing stare roused feelings of discomfort in his chest, he couldn't look away.

"So good work, Armande de Seville." She still watched him, unblinkingly, neither anger nor tears polluting her calm. "You've managed nothing. All you did was prove how inconsequential you really are. So easy to forget." She took a deep breath, as if she might not have been breathing properly during her speech. He smirked; how cute.

Dahlia noticed the smirk, and it seemed to frustrate her. But instead of railing her grievances at him any further, she walked past him. As if he really didn't matter she walked towards the door with a quiet salutation of farewell.

"You mentioned the baby I left you with," Armande stopped her.

Dahlia looked back, almost unlocking the bolts that held Armande's room securely shut.

"Yes. He's alive; the Council told me to lie to you, to keep you from coming after him, but I can't say I care to."

He? Armande swallowed and almost fell over. For almost ten years he had wondered at the fate of his child, only to be lied to and told that he was dead, that Dahlia had ridded herself of the fetus before his birth. Armande had never thought of that possibility until after he was in America, and it had worried him. Then to be told it was true... Now, so absently, to tell him that his child, his son, lived... She truly must not understand.

"Is he... is he healthy?"

Dahlia nodded; she could have been speaking with anyone, the man who had raped her and taken her entire life from her or the man who reset the targets in the archery hall. Did she truly not care? "He is. Very strong. He..." she seemed to consider whether she wanted to speak the sentence she had begun; with a shrug, she did so anyway. "He looks like you."

"Is that so." Armande was still faced away from her. He had never pulled down his hood; his face was completely invisible to her. He let a small smile form on his lips, although he didn't know why, with the sudden constriction in his chest. Why smile?

"Why ask?" Dahlia had moved back into the room now, closer to Armande. He carefully reconstructed his game face and turned to her.

"Do you know why I raped you, Dahlia?"

His frank bluntness took her off guard. She glared reprovingly. "You wanted a child. My Assassin blood is strong, and you wouldn't have been able to take my sister or mother so easily as you did me. I was an easy target."

"Is that what they told you?"

"Yes."

"Then they did not lie," Armande tilted his head. "Why did you keep him? My son?"

"MY son," Dahlia corrected firmly. "I kept him... because..." she trailed off, eyes still locked on his. For the first time, he caught a delicate quiver in her jaw, a tremor that echoed across her face, only for an instant. Her steady eyes were suddenly pained.

"I suppose," Dahlia started softly. "I suppose I needed him." This completely confused Armande.

"The woman I am today... the Assassin... was never supposed to survive," her eyes dropped from his to watch the fire. "If you hadn't done what you did, I would be married now, to some foolish old noble, living my foolish little life in the foolish French court and never knowing how much of a damn fool I was. I was never going to be initiated into the secret; Madeleine was the eldest, and her husband is an Assassin, as well. She would carry on the tradition, and I would be left never knowing. They would have let me live my life, never knowing." Her voice had faded, drifting. She was still staring into the fire; Dahlia shook her head and looked back up at Armande.

"You destroyed me, and my life, and took my father from me, and for that I'll never forgive you. But if you hadn't done what you did, I would be dead. The Dahlia I am now would be lost. So, when Eliane and the the others tried to convince me to kill your child, make him dead, as well, I refused. I fought it like it was my life they were trying to end," she chuckled without humor, shook her head, gaze drifting back to the fire. "None of them could understand. All they saw was that you had gotten what you wanted and I wasn't letting them take that from you. They resented it, and me. It wasn't until I gave birth to Leandre-"

"Leandre?" Armande asked quietly.

"After my father," Dahlia answered, again locking eyes with him. "It wasn't until after Leandre was born that I understood myself why I couldn't have discarded him. He reminds me of you. That's why I had to keep him; because even though you shattered me, if I hadn't been broken into pieces I never could have discovered that under the pieces was someone brave, and strong, and vastly different than the girl you ravaged. I hated you then; I've discovered over the years that hatred doesn't suit me. I've loved my son," she hesitated, "our son. As I said, I'm not afraid of you anymore. I haven't run from you in nine years; I've embraced you, watched the part of you that is in Leandre grow. After all this time, it's why I couldn't let Leandre be destroyed, and why my hatred for you was so fast to fade. I knew that if I ran, I could never heal. I wanted to heal. So I faced what you had done."

She stopped speaking suddenly; it was as if Dahlia had realized all at once everything she had so trustingly revealed to Armande about her life, about herself. She turned back to the door.

"Wait."

She stopped, back to Armande, hand half-extended towards the lock. Dahlia didn't turn around. "Yes?"

"Come here."

Armande could practically see the shiver pass from her shoulders, down her back through her shirt and vest, down the length of her legs through her trousers and boots. She didn't, however, move.

"Whatever you have to say, you can say it from where we are."

"No," Armande insisted. He crossed his arms and waited. "If you are so unafraid of me, come closer."

She glanced over her shoulder. For several heartbeats, Dahlia just looked at him, and he wondered if she would comply. Then, she walked closer, relaxed and unconcerned. Was she acting? Armande couldn't tell for sure. Her feet stopped her partway across the room, still a safe distance.

His mouth opened to demand that she come closer. Armande closed it again with wry grin; he took a step forward instead, meeting her across the floor in slow, measured strides. She didn't move away, but Armande could practically taste her heartbeat in her throat. Fear? Or something else?

He stopped when his feet were inches from hers. Dahlia stood her ground, but that tantalizing thrum of her increasing heart rate grew stronger.

"Are you afraid yet?" he asked.

"No," she replied. The truth of it resounded into the corners of his room and his mind.

Armande reached up slowly, slowly, giving Dahlia what seemed like a lifetime to shy away from his hand as he lifted it to her face and gently stroked her cheek. He let his hand drop to her shoulder; in her eyes, he could see the memory surface. He had touched her this way the night he had raped her. Now, as then, the electric beat of her blood under her skin called to his. She held his eyes defiantly, even as he moved his hand down her arm, until it encircled her wrist. Again, pain and fear flitted across Dahlia's face as that night invaded her thoughts, but her stubborn calm didn't even twitch.

Armande moved his hand down further still, until his fingers were laced through hers. He lifted their hands between them, so he could take her one hand in both of his larger ones, thoughtful.

"I paid little attention to these hands, that night," he admitted, looking down at them. "They're very different today. Harder, tougher, older." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, again meeting Dahlia's eyes. "Better. Much like the woman they belong to."

Dahlia's eyes were huge, but apart from that she didn't respond. Tension had begun to lace its way into her muscles, and Armande sighed and released her hand, retreating from her to stand beside the fireplace again.

"You and your son have nothing to fear from me," Armande murmured. He turned back to the fire.

He waited to hear her footsteps, hear the locks slide open and the doorknob turn. He heard none of these things, but couldn't stand to watch Dahlia look at him that way. She was still standing where he had left her. Still trying, no doubt, to fight back the images, the feelings, that his presence called back.

When he finally did hear footsteps, they were drawing nearer.

Dahlia's hand caught his arm and pulled him around. For a moment, Armande thought she might have intended to attack him, or yell at him, or accuse him further.

Then her fingers were caressing his jaw, and she was pulling his face down to hers.

She drew him into a kiss, holding him in place with her hands on his jaw and her lips clasped to his. Fire lashed through his blood, which in turn rushed elsewhere; desire crackled through him, but he had no idea what to do. Respond and risk alarming her? Resist and risk offending her?

She pulled away finally, short of breath. The Dahlia from moments before whose composure had been comparable to the ocean itself remained, but like the ocean undercurrents of something less secure ran beneath. Armande realized with a pleasant surge of heat searing across his skin that her anxiety wasn't fear or memory. He saw it in every movement, heard it in every breath, and felt in his gut how much she wanted what he now wanted again.

He leaned forward, resting his lips close to her ear. At first he had intended to say something to her, but words failed him. There was nothing to say. Nothing for him to say, at least.

"The pain... I can still remember it," Dahlia whispered, mouth dry. "I... I don't want to go through that again." Her hands and words seemed to be in disagreement; even as she spoke, her fingers traced his jaw, where a week of stubble remained from his travels, lightly followed the hollow of his throat down to his chest, where they stopped and hovered over his breastbone.

"This time," Armande answered softly. "I promise you, I will not hurt you. Do you believe me?"

She watched his face, as if searching out some betrayal of a lie or some indication of treachery. It seemed she found none; Dahlia nodded. "I do."

Armande didn't have to respond; Dahlia again pulled him down to meet her lips, and though he could feel echoes of that night ten years ago wash through her body at times, she never pulled away, never tried to run.

It had been some time since Armande had been with a woman. And it had been much longer since he had been with a woman that he felt no compulsion to hurt. Not again. Never again.

By the time they lay still in Armande's bed, the fire had burnt down to coals. Armande dragged himself from the warmth of the sheets to add more firewood to the dying hearth, returning as soon as he was certain the fuel would catch.

He returned to the exact same position: him on his back, arms up and fingers laced behind his head, and Dahlia on her side, facing away from him towards the far wall. They weren't touching, didn't talk, and hadn't done either since their lovemaking had ended.

Dahlia hadn't even looked at him in all that time. Growing more uncertain by the minute, Armande forced himself to speak up.

"Dahlia?"

"Hmm?" she replied, still not turning to face him. Armande twisted his upper body to lean on one elbow, nearer to her, but still not touching.

Do you regret it already? "Are you alright?" he asked instead.

She took her time answering, an irritating habit Armande was growing quickly frustrated of. "Yes, I'm fine," she finally answered.

"Lies," Armande accused instantly.

Finally, Dahlia turned to look at him, obviously annoyed. A flash of relief sped down Armande's spine; he had been worried that she may have been crying.

"Vraiment, forgive me for not being completely honest with you," she was still glowering, but lacked ferocity. Her head flopped back to the pillow and she was suddenly staring at the wall, away from him, again. "I confess a little bit of indecision. I had no intention of... this... when I came here tonight."

Armande remained leaning on his elbow; he wanted to reach out and pull her back to face him, but had a very clear feeling that this would be a bad move. In fact, he found that most of his options had resolved into very bad moves. It was as if he were surrounded by broken glass. Armande swallowed, thinking momentarily how much easier it had been to just snap women's necks when he was done with them.

The thought filled him with unexpected disdain, and he smothered it.

"To what does your indecision pertain?" he asked eventually.

"Why," she replied, the one word filled with so much confusion, so much disbelief, that it needed no further explanation. Again Armande wondered, did she regret already?

Dahlia spun about finally, mirroring Armande's pose of resting her head on her hand, propped up off the mattress. "Believe it or not, I have been courted since coming here. I've had sex with others besides yourself."

A flash of something-jealousy?-seared through Armande, but he kept his face placid.

"You are the one man I knew I would never do this with again," she continued. "Yet, less than twenty minutes in the same room alone with you, and that's exactly what I found myself doing."

She fell silent for a few moments, studying him, then, "Will you tell me the truth if I ask it?"

Armande couldn't think of anything in particular that he wanted to keep from her, so he nodded. "Yes."

"What did you do in America? What was it like? And where did you get this?" She traced her fingertips lightly over the tattoo of a wolf's paw that he wore over his heart. Pleasant sparks of arousal trailed across his skin after her fingers, and Armande wondered fleetingly if Dahlia would agree to any further sexual activty before the night was out. Probably not. "Or this..." she added, moving her fingers lower, to an ugly scar that wrapped partially around Armande's waist. "Or this," she continued wth a shrug, indicating another patch of scar tissue over his right shoulder.

"There are more further down, if you care to look," Armande commented dryly.

"Not tonight, peut-etre," Dahlia sighed.

"Well," Armande began, "This scar on my waist I recieved while attempting to assassinate one of the American rebels. He was better prepared that I anticipated. Not to mention flanked by two dozen guards that were not quite as asleep as I thought," the last was added in an undertone, an annoying afterthought. Dahlia smiled.

"It looks like it must have been painful."

"It was," Armande agreed. "It probably would have killed me. But, my target turned out to be a stranger man than I thought. He let me live, gave me medical attention." Armande thought about it. Finally he shook his head, "I confess absolute confusion at his motives, but I decided to return the favor."

"And the tattoo?" she pressed.

He seemed to ponder for a time, meandering between answering her query and avoiding the subject. "I happened across a tribe of Natives. I was allowed to roam with them, for a time. They taught me some of their ways. Gave me this," he gestured to the wolf's paw.

Dahlia fell silent, thinking.

Eventually, she adjusted herself onto her stomach, resting her head on the pillow. Eager to avoid the silence that was approaching, Armande spoke up.

"Why the sudden interest?" he asked.

"I can't just ask?" she countered.

"No." Armande watched her, waiting, knowing that if it came down to a contest of patience he was going to lose. Thankfully, she broke first.

"I'm trying to imagine what could have possibly happened to change you so. You are not the same man who snuck into my bedroom all those years ago."

Armande rolled onto his back and folded his hands over his stomach. "Neither are you the same girl. I..." the thoughts were clear in his head, but Armande had difficulty forming them into coherency. "You have... I have to admit, you've earned my respect, Dahlia."

She laughed, to Armande's surprise. It was an antique sound, dusty and rough, as if rarely used. "I have never earned a man's respect with my bedroom performance. Other things, perhaps, but respect is a new conquest."

Mortified and battered by that strange discomfort, hearing her speak of these 'other men', Armande was momentarily silenced. He looked over at her. Her voice was silent, but her eyes were laughing at him. He turned back to the bed's canopy, having no other response.

"You don't like hearing that I haven't spent these past years quivering in my bedsheets, dreading your return?" she asked with a raised eyebrow.

That must be it. Armande shrugged. "A man does like to see his work appreciated," he snipped, watching her out of the corner of his eye. Dahlia stilled; offended? Hurt?

She scoffed. "A woman likes to keep a man seeing what she wants him to."

"You little minx, you," Armande accused lightly. Her tone and words made him uneasy; was he walking into a trap? Was Richellou plotting something? Was Dahlia elaborate bait?

Armande rolled over onto his side, facing her. She didn't move, but her great dark eyes followed him steadily. Testing, Armande stroked a line from her shoulder to her elbow, waiting and watching. And wondering. His fingers trailed onward, over her muscled forearm to the inside of her wrist.

Dahlia sat up suddenly; she slipped from bed swiftly, dressing without offering a word of explanation. Armande sat up as well, not wanting her to go, but refusing to ask her to stay.

"Will I see you again before I depart?"

"You will be here some months, I imagine you might," Dahlia replied shortly.

Armande threw his legs over the side of the bed. "Will I see you again... here?"

"In your bedroom?" Dahlia asked. She seemed reluctant to answer, and delayed doing so. As she pulled on her vest and vambraces, she finally sighed in what sounded delightfully like defeat to Armande. "We shall see." She strode to the door and through it before he could ask anything further.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep rolled and undulated around Armande lazily. It was not the uncertain, confusing haze of dreams, but the gradual returning to his senses that came with waking. He floated slowly to the surface of consciousness, somehow reluctant to make the journey.

It was too early to be awake; at the end of summer the sun would rise by nine in the morning, but it was still dark. He must be getting old.

No, wait. Armande remembered this masked twilight, this perpetual gloom. Even open to the sky as it was, darkness always hovered near in the Ainsi.

Dark eyes, sharp as if he had never been asleep, snapped open and Armande's fingers found the hilt of his sword-breaker. He didn't remember moving into a sitting position or drawing the knife, but there he was, sitting in an empty bed brandishing a blade at an empty room. Scanning the corners and shadows, it was clear that he was alone. The fire had long died out, and it was quite cold out of the sheets; the skin of his torso prickled in the shocking chill of a seaside morning.

Armande dropped his arm without a sound. For thirty years, this weapon had not been out of reach whilst he slept, but this was the first time in a long while that he woke ready for battle. For an ambush.

Frustrated with the cold, the Ainsi, the entire Assassin order and himself, Armande rose from the bed with a shiver and moved to coax the fire back to life. Coals still roasted under the ashes; he uncovered them and piled firewood and peat about the embers to make a flame. It had also been some time since he had had to make his own fire; Beth had always kept the hearths burning nicely at home, and on her mornings off, Armande slept in until Harold stoked the kitchen fire back to life and the heat rose through the floorboards. Briefly, Armande wondered what they were doing. If, in his absence, they were still running his house in the tidy routine of order he had gotten used to. Unknowingly, a smile touched his lips, thinking of his silly maid's eavesdropping and the housekeeper's occaisonal, unintended naps in the parlor. Thomas the groundsman was quiet, a free black man who lived in the largely empty servants' wing and did his job without comment, but the other two had rubbed off on his stoic proffesionality.

Armande wondered, with an unexpected pang of regret, if he would ever see them again.

He took his time with the fire, not completely certain what he wished to do with the day. Visit the Library again, for sure, but his curious nature demanded further stimulation. Every arm of his situation clamored for attention; there was a cowed Council, an unlikely Head Councillor, a rage-filled Eliane, and then there was Dahlia. So much to think about, and so much to do. He wanted to explore, see what was different and what was the same about his former abode, and gage what remained of the Brotherhood.

A knock came at his door. Not giving much thought to his state of undress, he moved to unbolt the locks, picking up his sword-breaker again as he went.

He cracked open the door.

It was just a servant woman, carrying a jug of water. She refused to look him in the eye, and stammered nervously her obvious intentions. An equally anxious girl, much younger, hovered in the background, and Armande realized that where he was concerned, the maids had decided to use the buddy system. How quaint.

He was not, however, much in the mood to tease. So, with a low thank you, Armande opened the door further to take the jug.

It was good that he moved quickly to catch it, because once the door was out of the way, revealing that he wore nothing, both maids stifled shocked shrieks and the first lost her grip on the water jar. It was only at this point that Armande realized the issue, and watched in amusement as the two scurried away, no doubt to tell a grand tale to the servants wing about his eccentricies. He shook his head and closed the door; even as a new hire, Beth had never been so foolish. Perhaps she was too old to give a damn; she had seen his bare ass so often, she probably knew it better than he did, and not once had she acted so childishly naive.

Finally, Armande decided to visit the practice arena. He stretched and exercised often, eager to retain all the youth he could, for as long as he could, but it had been some time since he had someone to spar with. Well, someone to spar with that didn't end up dead.

The practice hall was an arena, closed, like the rest of the complex, from the outside world. High windows caught all the light they could from the sun that filtered down through the canyon, and during midday, this was enough. For the other hours, great torches and a system of mirrors threw light into every corner. Which, of course, there were none; oval in shape, a running track ringed the inside of the wall, while a cluster of sparring circles, obstacles, and other paraphenalia occupied the internal space. Closets and racks set into the stone walls housed dulled-down blades and blunted staffs, throwing knives and weights for the ankles and wrists, and anything else that the Assassin's had developed over the past milennia to better teach their pupils to stay alive.

Armande had not slept in; to the contrary, he seemed to be awake long before most of the complex. Few early-morning risers were present in the arena; they eyed him without comment as he entered, revealing neither fear nor interest. Armande ignored them.

Instead, he proceeded to stretch, easing the sleep from his muscles, soothing tight spots that had accumulated the night before with Dahlia.

Dahlia. Her face, her body, and more than anything, her motives battered at his focus as he went through the motions. What was the meaning of last night? Maybe she was just insane. Perhaps something upstairs was broken, and had been all along.

No, Armande sighed to himself as he shrugged out of his shirt; the cool morning air felt nice enough to go shirtless. There had been no insanity in her face, in her eyes. No weakness of mind, no flittering mental status. If either of them were insane, Armande reasoned, it had to be him.

By the time he had stretched his muscles to his satisfaction and warmed up, taking his time since he was in no real hurry, the arena had begun to fill with assassins coming in for their morning workouts. It was a good way to stay sharp, but Armande had few goods things to say about the methodology of some trainees. At least the sparring circles were entertaining to watch, if uninspired.

"Well, well." Armande turned to see Leverett approaching, comfortably, lightly dressed and ready to train, himself. He clapped Armande on the back; Armande just stared at him. Leverett chuckled uncomfortably. "I should have known this would be the first place I'd find you."

"What a change of heart," Armande snorted, raising an eyebrow.

Leverett sighed; it sounded forced. "I don't see any reason to hold it against you."

"Hold WHAT against me?"

With a heavy exhalation, Leverett watched Armande, perhaps looking for his usual sarcasm. "What happened in the Library?" he explained finally, as if Armande should know.

"What happened in the Library is none of your business." Armande was trying to decide if everyone in this place were mad.

"And that's why I'm not holding it against you," Leverett replied, a smidgen bitter.

"Hmph," Armande turned away, not much in the mood to talk. Leverett, however, was not prepared to let him be.

"Why don't you and I have a go?" Leverett nodded towards the sparring cirlces.

With quickly thinning patience, Armande stopped and considered the possibility. Several assassins neaby had heard Leverett's proposal, and whispering fanned out across the arena. Armande felt eyes on him; it went against his every instinct not to snarl and scare them away like a flock of pigeons. Because he knew he was stuck, now. If he refused to fight, doubts of his prowess would spread. Unless he really did want daggers sliding under his sheets with him, or worse, laughter at his back, Leverett had given him no other option.

"Dammit," he growled, striding into a suddenly empty circle. "What are we fighting with?"

"Swords?"

"If you want your head lopped off. Or something lopped off."

"Bare hands, then," Leverett replied, satisfied and smug that he had pried Armande into the duel.

"Fine."

The moment Leverett's foot left the ground outside the cirlce, Armande was on him with a roundhouse kick to the ribs. Leverett dived out of the way, rolling fo his feet lithely. Armande had already landed easily and turned to keep Leverett in sight.

"A bit underhanded," Leverett pointed out, smugness gone and replaced with focus.

Armande watched his target, unwavering, beginning to circle around to search for an opening. "The only fair opponent is a dead opponent."

Leverett bowed his head in acknowledgement. He didn't, however, take his eyes off Armande. A grin snaked over the latter's face; good, he thought to himself.

Leverett made the next move, feinting to draw Armande out of a defensive stance and proceeding to jab sporadically at the ribs. Armande avoided the body shots, catching Leverett's arm and twisting it, drawing Leverett along the natural path of his own momentum and thrusting him towards the ground. Leverett very nearly bounced back to his feet, quick to get out of Armande's range and back on the defense.

Armande made a bold strike towards Leverett's collarbone; instead of dodging it, Leverett blocked, as Armande hoped he would. Armande snatched the hand Leverett had blocked his attack with and kicked out at the side whose arm was preoccupied; the kick landed with a echoing thud, though Leverett had managed to twist away to avoid the worst of the impact.

A decent crowd had flocked about their circle, though not too close, as the two Assassins struck back and forth at each other.

"Liking the attention?" Leverett whispered nastily to Armande when they were close enough, grappling, to not be easily heard.

"It's just fantastic, you snarky bastard," Armande growled. Leverett was proving to be less an inexperienced boy than he had first assumed. Or maybe Armande was merely growing... old. The thought infuriated him.

"I think you have a couple admirers," Leverett teased, indicating a pair of young woman assassins, clearly teenagers, probably not even done with their journeymanship. Maybe not even started. Armande smirked.

"Tempting, but I admit my tastes have matured somewhat."

Leverett's taunting took a sharp edge. "Dahlia HAS matured, hasn't she?"

If he was expecting this to trip up Armande, it failed. Armande merely shrugged, not bothering to deny the implication.

And then it clicked; Dahlia had mentioned her other lovers. Rage boiled in the pit of his gut inexplicably; Armande swept aside several worthy strikes from Leverett, punched him twice in each shoulder, numbing his arms, and snached him by the throat.

"It was you!" Every word was stressed in a hissing whisper as he pulled Leverett close enough that the tips of their noses nearly touched. He couldn't even think.

A sound reached his ears. It was loud, sudden. And again. Armande nearly twitched; they were applauding, companionably admiring his win. Leverett forced an anxious grin. Armande threw him at the ground.

What now? Fly into a rage and beat him to death? Why? For being among the 'other men'? Armande forced his face neutral and watched Leverett get back to his feet. All he had done was sleep with an attractive young woman, who, Armande had to admit, was much closer to Leverett's age than his own. Who Leverett hadn't sexually assaulted. Leverett hadn't gotten her with child and broken her into pieces and left her as good as done for. The other assassins had begun to disperse back to their training, and still Armande stood staring at Leverett, trying to decide what he wanted to do, and why.

A door closed. The sound was out of place, and Armande instinctively turned to Eagle vision, following the sound. There was no red, to his surprise. Instead, a flickering trail of gold led from where the crowd of onlookers had been gathered to a side door.

Dahlia.

Armande took a last look at his enemy, and realized that he wasn't an enemy. He was just Leverett, just another Assassin. Just another man, who had done nothing that Armande was in any place to hate him for. Seeming to realize that he had pushed Armande too far, Leverett waited, watching cautiously.

"Do you train often?" Armande asked suddenly.

"Of course."

"In the morning?"

Leverett nodded. "Typically."

Armande walked to where he had left his shirt and pulled it back on; he was sweating. Time to visit the baths.

"Perhaps I'll be seeing you here again."

One thing that Armande had missed greatly about the Assassin complex where he had spent his boyhood was the Library. It was huge; halls of shelves upon shelves, books, scrolls, sheafs of documents on every subject, every era, every language imaginable crowded into every available space. When he had first come here as a child, it had been completely overwhelming. Now, it was exactly what he needed.

After the... interesting morning spent in the practice arena, Armande had bathed, dressed, and retired to the solitude of the massive Library. This was the reason he had come back; the Brotherhood be damned, he had knowledge to seek out.

"Excuse me?" Armande approached a scribe. Weak as the Assassins had become, at least their scholars were as he remembered. Mousy, bookish, and otherwise engaged when you needed their aid. This one was no exception; he was an older gentleman, slightly older than Armande himself, with gray speckling his neat beard and receding hairline. He looked up at Armande through well-polished, well-used spectacles, clearly unhappy at being pulled from the tiny tome he was poring over meticulously.

"Hmph." His response was simple and not very indicative of his cooperation.

With anyone else, Armande would have grown angry or belligerent; with scribes, however, there was no point. "Might I request you help, for a moment, Monsieur? It has been some time since I was here."

"Indeed," the scribe huffed. He strode out from behind his desk, unexpectedly spry. "Armande de Seville. It has been a long time since you visited."

"It has been a long time since I was able," Armande replied.

The scholar eyed him for several moments. Armande thought he caught a smirk lurking under the whiskers; then the man was speaking again. "I thought I knew why you had come back."

Startled, Armande couldn't respond. Was his search so obvious? Did everyone know?

"No need to look so guilty," the scholar waved his concern away. "Whatever it is, I don't know, and I don't think I want to."

"A scholar who doesn't want to know? Doubtful," Armande commented dryly.

For the next two hours, Armande tucked himself away in a corner of the library (a corner of shelves, at least; this hall might not even have corners, for all he knew), buried in history.

It was a massive undertaking just to find anything in this place; it's organizational system was effective, but only if you knew how to use it. Often, it seemed to be in a language that only the scribes spoke fluently. However, Armande was able to locate an armful of tomes and scrolls that appeared promising.

So far, looks had been decieving.

"Shh, you stupid ponce, we're going to get caught!"

Armande exhaled, and snapped shut the book he was attempting to navigate. The sound of common teenage mischief sounded clearly from a bookshelf away; the perpetrators were barely visible through gaps in the books and shelves. Two adolescent boys, no older than sixteen. Armande made busy sorting through the materials piled on the table, organizing which he would pore through, and in which order.

The shuffling footsteps of the youths stopped suddenly. By the Creed, they were terrible skulkers.

"That's him!"

The hairs on the back of Armande's neck prickled, and he felt the pressure of eyes watching. He didn't react, studiously rearranging and reorganizing the papers and books. Let them stare; they would eventually leave and take their noise with them. And then he could get back to work.

"He's older than I thought."

"Yeah."

Armande grit his teeth. No need to get angry.

"He's the one who gave it to Dahlia?"

"That's what they say."

Armande's hands froze in the process of feigning preoccupation. His stalkers didn't notice.

"He doesn't look like a rapist."

"Everyone says she and him were, uh, you know." Lewd sounds and guffawing followed, and Armande's blood boiled straight into his brain. He literally remembered nothing from when he heard those words to when he had the boys cornered.

"If I ever hear you speak a word against Dahlia again," Armande's voice was like contained thunder as he loomed over his prey, "you will never see for yourself what sex with a woman is like. The last and only impression of it you will be privy to is the feeling of your genitals being violently removed and forced up the nearest orifice. Am I clear?"

Both merely nodded, wide-eyed and pale.

Armande stepped aside and made a spastic gesture for them to run. Both boys took off like rabbits from fire, not looking back and from the sound of it not stopping until they were well out of the Library.

His breath came short; Armande exhaled heavily and returned to his seat.

"Dammit!" he cursed loudly, pounding a fist into the table.

"Just make it."

"I don't have the materials."

"I don't give a damn. Make it."

So the conversation had gone between Armande and the weapons' smith for some ten minutes. The smith was a short man, lean as a wire, but he stood up to Armande's six feet something without flinching. Of course, he was nonchalantly armed with his smelting tools, including a hot iron and a small pot of molten steel only a few steps away. This, more than anything, irritated Armande.

"You say you don't have the materials, but give no answer when I ask when you will be more fully stocked."

"I have no answer to give you," the smith replied evenly. "The ore and the leather come in when they come in- it could be tomorrow or next month."

This, Armande didn't buy for a minute. As he spoke, the smith worked several different projects at once, all of them involving steel, iron, leather, or a combination of the three. "You expect me to believe that the weapons smith of an order of Assassins is out of metal?" Armande hissed.

The smith was undaunted. "Believe what you like."

White hot fury cooked in Armande's brain, giving him a migraine. Once again, a small crowd had gathered, this time outside the smith's workshop, a safe distance away to observe. Even if he had been alone, Armande knew threatening or, worse, attacking the smith would do nothing. They both knew that if he was going to get a product worth his money, Armande and the smith would have to agree. And from that knowledge sprouted the smith's uncanny resistance to Armande's worthless bullying.

He dropped his voice. "What if your payment were higher?"

The smith looked up, for the first time in several minutes. "Money won't make the goods arrive faster."

Frustration broiled up Armande's throat and fought to escape in a flurry of curses. Instead, Armande turned on his heel and left, bursting through the unprepared crowd of oglers on his way out. He felt eyes upon him; it was a feeling he was quickly growing accustomed to. A glance about with his Eagle eyes revealed another crisscrossing trail of golden footprints, their owner gone already.

All this distant watching of Dahlia's was growing tiresome. More tiresome was the notion that he couldn't even get a simple vambrace made without battling like a lion to convince the smith to make it. It would appear that some form of unofficial boycott of him, personally, was in place; he had quite practically had to duel to the death with the cook when he went in search of lunch.

Irritated, Armande stormed off to see to one other errand that he had in mind. His room was pathetically small. So what if an Assassin should live a spartan lifestyle? He didn't want to.

The offices of the Councillors were not far from the Library. All nine of them had a private study to retreat to, take meetings in, review information in secret, or hide from their spouses. The High Councillor was no exception; at the Ainsi's construction, it had been assumed that the tradition of a Grand Master would continue. For that reason, one office in the hall, the office at the end, was quite a bit larger and more spacious than the others. Of course, this office was the one the Armande stalked to.

The door was solid oak, thick and heavily hung on massive hinges. It rattled and boomed like thunder when Armande pounded on it unceremoniously.

"What are you looking at?" he snapped at the other occupants of the hallway, some of which had stopped to stare.

As if he knew who was knocking (and he likely did), Richellou took his time responding. Never one to wait, Armande threw the office open and burst in, slamming the door shut behind him.

"No one said you could enter," Richellou reprimanded, not bothering to look up from the book he was poring over.

Armande stood beside the door. Seeing Richellou here, in his big office, with his big chair and small book provoked a morbidly humorous grin. Though still furious, Armande settled his temper down and covered the distance between himself and the High Councillor in slow, easy strides.

"Not going to ask why I'm here?"

"I assume you want something."

"Hmm," Armande replied vaguely. He stopped when he was practically standing on top of the desk, staring down at Richellou. Richellou, in turn, could no longer ignore Armande so looked up, annoyed.

The light in this chamber was better than that of the Council's meeting room. Armande could easily see the creased lines that sagged down Richellou's face, and the shock-white of his hair was somewhat of a relief; at least someone here was older than Armande himself was. Richellou had to be pushing seventy.

"I do have to wonder," Armande began idly, "how a man like you gets a title like this."

Richellou continued to glare at him, wordless. Since his teasing, testing jabs were ignored, Armande skipped straight to the point.

"I want a different room."

"Nonsense."

"Locking me away in the servant's levels is hardly an effective solution."

"Solution to what?"

"My being here," Armande answered darkly The familiar smirk that Richellou so detested appeared again.

Snapping his book shut, Richellou held back his annoyance, reluctant to give Armande the satisfaction of knowing just how trying he was. He leaned back in his desk chair, folding his hands over his stomach.

"What makes you think we have room? We haven't kept an apartment for you reserved while you were away."

"I checked; three apartments in the Master's hall alone are available."

"That hall is off limits to you," Richellou stated matter-of-factly.

Admittedly, Armande wasn't expecting such open defiance. "Let's say I don't give a damn."

"As per our agreement, you are required to keep your distance from Dahlia Touveilles. It would be impertinent to place you so near to her own personal living space."

This was funny; he probably could have held it in, but Armande let himself laugh in the High Councilllor's face. Richellou obviously saw neither the joke nor the humor in this, as his pompous expression turned sour and resolved into a glare.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, the shadow of a growl underscoring his words.

Armande snickered, "I wonder, did you consult with Dahlia lately? I think she's rescinded her wish that I stay away."

"It was Eliane's request, not Dahlia's, and I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," Richellou replied, frustration apparent in the stressed staccato of his words and the red tinge his forehead had taken on.

Leaning on the desk so as to be as close to eye level as possible with the High Councillor, Armande took an extra minute to smirk meaningfully across the table; his insolence was met with a scowl.

"Well, let me explain it in simple terms," Armande started. "I came back to my room last night to find Dahlia waiting for me. We had a... long conversation, about some things." Armande's smirk widened. "She stayed for a decent two hours, in fact. Of course, I wasn't watching the time."

At first, it seemed that Richellou hadn't heard him. Maybe even that the old man had had a stroke and died where he sat, his stillness was so unreal. When he finally moved, it was his face that did so first, twisting into a snarl.

"I'll speak with Dahlia, but you listen here," he hissed, standing. "If word reaches me that you've been with her again-"

"You'll what?" Armande glared across the table. His smile was gone, replaced by the predatory stare that had been known to come out at times like these. There might as well have been a prowling wolf on the other side of the desk.

Richellou stared back. "Our agreement is off."

"You have no control over me. You have no control over Dahlia," Armande taunted again, almost in a sing-song tone of mockery. "And you know it. You can do nothing to two consenting adults. You're as helpless as you were twenty-five years ago."

Memory surged to the forefront of Richellou's face. They were not pleasant memories.

"Get out."

Armande's smirk returned; he knew the sound of defeat when he heard it.

"I'll have my things moved," Armande taunted as he pulled the office door open and shut behind himself.

He waited a moment before walking away; after ten full seconds, a strangled, rumbling scream of rage echoed from within Richellou's office. Armande strolled off with a grin, always happy to make someone's day: his own.

Despite what she said, a week passed before Armande finally grew impatient enough to actively seek Dahlia out. He hadn't so much as glimpsed her since that first night at the complex. It was a vast structure, reaching deep into the cliffs beside the sea, but even so it seemed ridiculous, suspicious, that their paths would not cross. So Armande decided to look for her, beginning in the only place besides his bedroom he had seen her.

The Library was mostly empty; this was far from unusual, at nearly ten o'clock in the morning. Still, Armande scoffed, even as he scanned the many aisles for his quarry. As a disciple, he had been required to spend long hours poring over tome after tome, often arriving long before sunrise so that progress could be made before combat training commenced in the afternoon. To see few students present both dismayed and infuriated him.

Despite his distraction, Armande was lucky. It was not a long search through the silent shelves when he caught sight of Dahlia through the books.

She hadn't noticed his presence; Armande slipped down his aisle until it connected to hers, where he proceeded to observe from around the corner, half shrouded in the early-morning dimness of the library hall.

A book was open in her hands; Armande continually forgot how small Dahlia was, so substantial she appeared when in motion. The old tome was the length of her forearms and hands, though she held it in one arm easily. The fingers of her other hand traced absently down the page, turned it, traced the lines until she again was disappointed, and turned several more pages. Was she looking for something also?

Dahlia closed the book and returned it to the shelf. It's place was high above her head, and she had to reach, stretching in amusingly un-Assassin-like difficulty to put it back without climbing. Armande moved further behind the books as she straightened and re-ordered the disturbed perfection of her shirt and vest. When he looked again, she had moved closer. Now, she weaved back and forth, examining titles and spines, bending down to read those on the lower rungs and standing on tiptoe to see the higher ones.

Armande found himself watching mindlessly, pleasantly hypnoized by the innocent way she moved and the less-innocent lines and curves of her body. Not completely sexual, some bizarre contentment infected him as Dahlia pulled out another book, this one smaller, and flipped through the pages, searching. This confused him; Armande tried to figure out this alien sensation in his chest as he watched her, but came up with nothing.

Suddenly, Dahlia snapped her book shut and turned to look at him directly. "Can I help you Armande?"

His mouth hung open dumbly; she had taken him off-guard, and that didn't happen very often. He didn't have a ready response, and certainly nothing that could cover up the fact that he had been caught red-handed, skulking around like a child in Dahlia's footsteps.

"Am I not permitted to also use the Library?" he snapped, annoyed at having no better answer. Dahlia smirked.

"I suppose you are permitted," she agreed, returning to her book.

Without need for further secrecy, Armande stalked into her aisle and peered invasively over her shoulder. Whatever she was reading was in Italian; Armande hadn't read Italian in over twenty years, and recognized little. Curiosity nattered away the inside of his head, but he refused to ask.

Instead, he cut to the chase. "I haven't seen you lately."

"I have been occupied," she replied instantly.

"With what?" Armande pressed.

Dahlia glared at him incredulously. "I am a mother and an Assassin- forgive me if I don't find the time to find my way back to your bedchamber night after night!" she exclaimed, obviously trying to keep her voice down. Not that she needed bother; there were precious few potential eavesdroppers, anyway.

Armande cringed inwardly, shamed and irritated further that she inflicted him so with so little effort. He had walked right into it. Armande gritted his teeth. "I wasn't thinking." Truth, enough.

This seemed to be the last thing Dahlia expected; her fury vanished in a wave of what might have been relief. "I-It's quite alright." She stubbornly buried her nose in the book again.

In the attempt to keep her talking, Armande finally gave in to his insistent curiosity. "What are you reading?"

Dahlia paused. Her eyes strayed from the pages and she glanced up at Armande. "Claudia Auditore's diary."

"Vraiment?" Immediately interested, Armande forgot his irritation. "I had assumed it was lost in the siege of Monteriggioni."

"One would think," Dahlia agreed with a small smile. "I assume it was recovered from the rubble. It isn't a copy; see the damage to the cover? It went through some rough action before it found its way here."

Armande watched her spectulatively, folding his hands passively behind his back. "Light reading?"

"Hmm," Dahlia avoided answering, again with a tiny coy smile.

"And that one?" Armande jerked his chin in the direction of her previous selection. "And the other volume?"

"The record book she kept for those twenty years whilst Ezio hunted the Spaniard," she replied quietly.

The book sat innoculously where she had returned it to the shelf. Armande raised an eyebrow, still peering over her shoulder at the diary. Dahlia ignored him and put up a convincing facade of returning to her reading. He leaned closer again, chin almost resting on her shoulder. "I see a pattern," he breathed into her ear.

"Don't try to bully me," Dahlia snapped, waving him away.

He caught her hand. "Who says I was trying to bully you?"

Dahlia finally looked up at him again, closing the book. She replied in such a matter-of-fact tone, like what she said should be obvious. "Because its all you know how to do."

"Is that why you've been following me? So I can't bully you?"

Dahlia frowned. "I haven't been following you."

"Don't try to lie to me."

"Don't try to bully me," she repeated.

Armande dropped her hand.

She dropped her eyes.

Dahlia put the book back.

"I told you that you have nothing to fear from me."

"And I'm supposed to just believe you?"

"You believed me the other night," Armande replied fiercely.

"I'm beginning to think that the other night was the biggest mistake of my life!" Dahlia replied heatedly.

Armande didn't answer. Dahlia didn't continue. He pulled his hand away, folding it again behind his back.

"Do you really think so?"

Dahlia refused to look away, stubbornly meeting his eyes. She didn't, however, offer a response. Armande scoffed under his breath.

Without another word, Armande left the Library. He didn't know what he had been expecting; what, was he thinking she would wantonly fall into his arms and confess that she had dreamt of him every night? Not dreams, surely. Nightmares. Was he expecting to find that she had wanted to come to him all along? Foolishly, yes.

Some hours later, just as Armande was considering leaving his new, larger rooms to hunt down something for supper, there was a soft knock on the door, almost too soft to hear. Even he had trouble percieving it; not sure that it had happened at all, he crept across the room, hand securely on his dagger.

Dahlia waited outside. Admittedly, Armande had no idea whether this was good or devastating; regardless, he opened his door a fraction wider.

"To what do I owe the honor?" he asked dryly. He stepped back, allowing her in.

She didn't move. "You may well have been the worst thing that happened to me, ever," she confessed. Armande's heart sank, and he considered slamming the door shut; something kept it open. Continuing, Dahlia's eyes defiantly held his. "But I'm not the same person I was. You are not the same man you were. What's done is over; it was wrong of me to judge my actions today by yesterday's standards."

Wary, Armande unconsciously pulled the door closer. "It is common knowledge that learning from the past is wise."

"Learning to fish by remembering how to sew will only get you so far," she replied.

He grinned, though it was half-hearted. "You may be so changed, but I'm afraid if you knew me well, you'd find that I am not as different as I seem."

Dahlia shrugged, finally dropping her eyes in thought. "Peut-etre." She looked up again. "But having seen you at your worst, I would wager that there has been some small difference made." Almost too subtle to see, a smile turned up the corners of her lips; her face seemed suited for it, but the muscles themselves unused to the expression, as if she had had not nearly enough practice.

Armande leaned against the frame, not sure what to make of her presence here. She came in peace, that much was certain. Where she couldn't see, he tucked his dagger into his belt using the door for cover. Armande was still trying to make heads or tails of why both of them were standing at his door, saying nothing, when she surprised him yet again.

"In truth, what happened between us the other night might be the biggest mistake of my life," Dahlia admitted. As she spoke, her hand came to rest on his arm, which she squeezed lightly. Her smile widened, by a margin that no measurement could follow, it was so minute. "And in truth, I came here hoping to repeat it."


	4. Chapter 4

Deep in the night, a shadow glided through the Ainsi. It flitted through halls, past night-owl Assassins, through doors and all unseen. It made almost no sound; if anyone noticed its passage, they forgot moments later, its existence an irrelevant detail.

And at the same time, another shadow, less invisible but still unnoticed, stopped and raised a hand to knock on Dahlia Touveilles' door.

It opened swiftly and the figure stepped inside. The door swung shut and was quickly bolted.

Dahlia tested the doorknob one last time, then turned to appraise her visitor. Armande pulled back his hood, returning her stare. Neither spoke for almost a full minute, studying, examining each other. The tension in the air was almost thick enough to see; Armande began to loosen the clasp of his cloak, letting it drop to the floor as his fingers moved to the buckle on his belt.

"Leave it," Dahlia commanded softly, never blinking. Armande did as he was told warily.

Dahlia finally moved; she met him across the floor, hands moving to his belt as she stared him in the eye. "I'll get it myself."

Her sheets were stained with sweat; screams burst from her lips one after another. She had never experienced this much pain in her life. It was supernatural that she was still alive. But despite this, all Dahlia could think about was breathing. Just. Keep. Breathing.

There were no walls; black shadows hung like cutains beyond the light that hovered around the bed. Where was the light coming from? The women around her didn't seem to have shadows; did the light have a source at all? And then, she had to keep pushing. Once begun, she had to keep going, or else her son would never be born. And the pain would never end.

The midwives were silent. No encouragement, nothing. They barely even looked at her.

Something must have changed, some miracle must have taken place, because the agony dropped off sharply and Dahlia was left with a throbbing, dulled stab in her lower body. Everything was a blur. Candles. There were candles, suddenly, placed on the bedside table, burning calmly, as if even they were decidedly ignoring what had just occured.

The midwives moved around on the far side of the room, just at the boundary of Dahlia's sight.

"My son?" she croaked. In life, she hadn't known for certain the sex of the baby; in the dream, she had known all along. "Can I see him?"

And there was Eliane, sitting on the bedside. She took Dahlia's hand, confused.

"Son?" she asked. "What are you talking about, Dahlia?"

Despair choked her; Dahlia was so weak, far too weak to stand, even though she could see the nurses across the room holding her baby. So close... if only she could go to them, take her baby from them. But she just could not. She felt transparent. Wispy as a veil. Thus she was reduced to desperately begging Eliane, as she had so many times, so many nights, in so many incarnations of this nightmare.

"Please," she sobbed. "Please give me my son!"

"Dahlia, you're confused," Eliane repeated. She felt her daughter's forehead with her hand; it was a familiar, motherly gesture that would have made little sense coming from Eliane in reality, horrifyingly ruined by Dahlia's forehead slicked with drying sweat and Eliane's hand slick with clotting blood. "Are you feverish?"

Dahlia began to shake.

"Give me my son!" she insisted. The nurses were gone, and so was Leandre. Leandre... he had a name! He was hers!

"Give me my son!"

Dahlia's eyes snapped open and she took a ragged gasp of stuffy air. Claustrophobic, it took a moment to regain her bearings. She was in her room. Her room? No... someone's room. Armande's room.

She froze, realizing what this must mean. She turned over gently, hoping...

Armande lay on his back, nakedness covered by the sheets. His dark eyes were open and silently watching her.

Dahlia stared back, thinking. Did she speak in her sleep? Had she tossed? Perhaps he had noticed nothing.

"You fell asleep," he commented simply. Armande finally took his eyes off of her and let them rest on the canopy overhead. If he had any opinion or thoughts at all, he didn't show it. His face was even, unreadable, cool. And that, more than anything, told Dahlia just how much he had heard and seen.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Most of the night, I imagine. The fire's burned down; it's still dark out, but morning isn't far distant."

"You imagine? How long have you been awake?"

"Since you woke me a few minutes ago."

Dahlia sighed; as if it weren't unsettling enough to let Armande see her caught in night terrosrs like a child, she had been gone all night. Eliane would be mad as a cat, and whether she was too old to care what her mother thought was not the issue. Life became quite irritating when Eliane was angry. No more or less difficult, just irritating, like stepping in a cold puddle just as you begin the walk home.

But before she could move from bed, Armande spoke again, casually, as if uninterested. "You mentioned Leandre, as you slept."

Turned with her back to him, Dahlia closed her eyes. This was not a discussion she wished to have with Armande de Seville. And yet... this was also a conversation she didn't wish to have with anybody.

"You called me by the name Zephine last night, and I made no comment. You could return the favor."

"I did not." It wasn't a question, and in his blatant, cutthroat style of casting off discretion, Armande was calling out her lie and waiting for a better dodge. Dahlia didn't have one.

"I don't want to talk about it," she stated, flat as the sea on a windless day and just as unyielding.

He was still watching her; Dahlia's shoulderblades twitched where his eyes were still upon them, but he made no further attempt to pry. Instead, he stretched his massive frame and turned on his side facing her. She could see his feet and legs turn in her direction out of the corner of her eye.

"There is a matter I thought to bring up with you. Involving our son."

Frost crept down Dahlia's spine. She swallowed before she could stop herself, having a feeling where this topic would lead. She drew her face under control and turned to face Armande, holding the sheets up to her chest. His face was still impassive; two could play that game.

"And that would be...?"

"May I meet him?" Armande asked, so direct that Dahlia could almost convince herself she had heard wrong. Anxiety fluttered and swayed her head, cluttering her thoughts with emotion and, most of all, fear. An irrational moment found her wishing she had lied to Armande after all, let him believe Leandre dead. Why? She didn't know. Three months before, when she had so boldly thrown his son's existence in Armande's face, Dahlia had felt no fear, known no hesitation, and had no doubt that he would come nowhere near the boy. But now, while he lay in bed with her, asking with no demands and no threats, to meet his son, her greatest fear was that she might agree.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Dahlia replied, ducking her eyes away from his.

Armande sat up on his elbow. He watched her for a moment, measuring. "For what reason?"

"You aren't staying," Dahlia answered with a humorless smile, shaking her head. "Children aren't like adults. They don't understand things like we do. How can I introduce him to you, then tell him you're leaving?"

Armande didn't argue. Instead, "Can I see him? He doesn't need to meet me... might I just see him, from a distance?"

Dahlia let her eyes orbit back into line with his. Why not let Armande see Leandre? What was the harm? The harm was great; it meant a wall, a barrier being torn apart that she had built around the last, most sacred place in her soul that Armande had not, and would not, touch: that which belonged to her son. To share Leandre with Armande... For months, she had shared herself and her bed with Armande. It was a mutual agreement of respect, possibly attraction. But for all that he might worm his way into her mind, even her heart, there was nothing there to break or damage, so the danger was little. Nothing there, save the fortified niche where Leandre played; there was only one path Armande might take that Dahlia feared him finding, and that path went through their child.

That last patch of spring glistening through oncoming winter. When this man was the one who had reduced that spring so greatly in the first place, a frozen fear forked through her blood to imagine showing Armande the way to what was left.

"I'll have to think about it," she answered finally.

He accepted this answer, though if Dahlia had looked, she might have seen the hazy shadow of disappointment, just tugging the corner of his eye, or in the tightening of his cheek muscles.

"Anyway," she continued, avoiding looking him in the face. "He isn't here."

"What?"

"Leandre isn't here at all. He's with my sister."

Armande sat up slowly, raising an eyebrow. "Did you think it necessary to hide him from me at such great lengths?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "I wouldn't take such measures on your account," Dahlia smirked. "No... He spends every fall with Madeleine and Phillippe and their children in Marseilles. He looks forward to it. Something of a holiday. Normally, I go with him." Dahlia's voice wavered and faded. She shrugged and laid back among the blankets, hugging the pilllow and turning away from Armande absently.

Armande laid back among the sheets as well. It was uncharacteristic of Dahlia to speak so much; though her speech the first night they became lovers had been extensive, Armande had soon discovered that this was not her habit at all. She was quiet and reserved; for her to say so much, she must be ill. Or upset.

He allowed her obvious attempt to end the conversation, letting her off the hook. She, too, had realized how much she had told him, where her son was, who he was with. Her son. Their son...

Dahlia's alarming behavior in her sleep disturbed Armande still. She was unaware of how much she had said; Armande was able to piece together the general meaning of her torment. Who would take her son? Armande himself? Perhaps.

Stealing a glance at Dahlia, he studied her profile in the dim glow of the coals and predawn twilight. She was calm now, though agitated. He could see it in the tension lines of her forehead and the uneasy tides of her breath. Lying beside her was like lying near a nucleus of stress; it seeped into his skin, battered away at his brain.

And to his confusion, Armande felt the need to ease that stress. His instictive muscles ached to inch nearer to her, wrap her up in comfort and in himself, and... do what? Not sex. Just... hug her.

This, more than anything, confused and frustrated him, and Armande contented himself with rolling onto his stomach, craftily arranging it so that he moved closer to her, his arm just touching her shoulder, which was as close as he dared approach. He was afraid he might try something stupid; he was afraid he might succeed in something stupid.

In the months Armande had been at the Ainsi, he had developed a reluctant routine. If he spent the night with Dahlia, which he often did, he might not leave bed until noon. Once, he had found the day mostly gone by the time he and Dahlia disembarked from his chambers. On a normal day, he would go from bed to the training arena. If Leverett was still there, they would spar, once Armande had warmed up. However, Leverett was something of an early bird, so Armande was rarely able to roll out of Dahlia's bed and still make it to the arena before the younger assassin left.

Regardless, Armande would train, finding it easy to coax in partners to duel with. Many of the journeyman and full-fledged assassins wished to hone their skill on Armande's experience, and even if some of them were pathetic, he found he enjoyed the look of shock on their faces when he disappeared from under their blade and appeared behind them, over them, inside their guard, or out of their reach.

When he was satisfied, Armande would take a walk down to the smiths near the bay and inquire, yet again, about the materials. Every day, he was turned away.

When his murderous rage subsided, often after lunch or a midafternoon swim to cool his temper, Armande would, unfailingly, find himself at the great double doors of the Library.

His search for answers was proving futile. Perhaps what he sought was hiding, somewhere in this place, but he was beginning to doubt he would ever find it. Armande had spent collective hours, days, combing through these shelves, to no avail, and had crashed into dead end after dead end. A missing tome, a missing page... something would stop him short in his pursuit of the truth.

Today, he stood outside the Library for a very long time. Then he walked away.

When an Assassin died, at least in France, they were not buried in the earth, where there was a chance of discovery, nor in a tomb, to be unceremoniously plundered later. History being cyclical as it was, the Ainsi had no place to lay the dead in permanent rest. Instead, down the cliffs from the Balcony, there was a wide, low cave, with a wide, low path that led there from the complex proper. In the cave, something of a natural dock had been shaped; this was the site of the final journey of all French Assassins. At the death of a brother or sister, the Brotherhood would gather and light a floating pyre, sending the fallen out to sea.

This was where Armande stood now. It was midday; cheery autumn sunlight bounced off the ocean into the cave, and masked its true purpose. Most funeral rites took place at twilight, once dusk set in.

The last death Armande had attended had been that of his father. Armande's mother, Devana, had lit the pyre herself, and it had changed her. She had never been carefree, but upon her husband's death, their small family grew colder still. But that was not why Armande had come. Today, he thought of Gerard.

"How did he die?"

The silent shadow at the back of the cavern stepped forward. Manon drew level with Armande, who stood at the base of the dock.

"There was a failed mission," she replied, watching the sea. It crashed and turned, but the smooth gradient of the seabed before this enclave made it calm before this place of the dead. "We all know the risks. This life of ours is often short; those of us who are doomed to a ripe old age know that there is nothing to fear from an early death."

Armande didn't reply. Manon snuck a glance at him; he was also watching the tide. If this subject upset him at all, it didn't show.

"Who lit the pyre? Gerard's parents were dead, and he had no siblings."

"There was no pyre," Manon answered. "His body was never recovered from the Templars. And we tried," she cut Armande off before he could comment.

Silenced, Armande returned to his reverie. If one didn't know better, it would have looked as though he was merely watching the surf, not a care in the world. But, she mused, did Manon know better, at all? Maybe he didn't care.

"What are you thinking?" Manon asked finally. She did not usually give in to curiosity, and the question had barely formed in her mind before she found it spilling off her tongue. She sighed inwardly, wishing she had kept it to herself, when Armande answered.

"I'm thinking that perhaps I should not have returned."

Manon looked up at him sharply.

Before she could ask anything further, Armande changed the subject. "Do you know of any reason why the weapon smith would refuse me service?"

"Que?"

"You heard me."

Irritated that he had shifted focus so easily, Manon shrugged. "Why should I know? It's his business who he serves."

"For over a month his supply of iron ore and leather has been suspiciously empty."

Understanding, Manon sighed again. "Je vois."

Armande grunted irritably in response, the first flicker of emotion he had shown since their conversation had begun.

"Perhaps speak to..." she chuckled. "Well. I suppose speaking to the Council would be silly. Hell- it might even be their order that prevents the smith from servicing you."

Manon regretted speaking the words the moment they left her lips, because once spoken, both of them knew how true they were. She looked up at Armande; after twenty years as a full-fledged Assassin, few things sent shivers down Manon's spine. The cold, bestial glare on Armande's face as he met her eyes was counted among them.

More canine than human, Armande swiftly spun about and prowled back up the pathway to the Ainsi; Manon didn't have the nerve to stop him.

Richellou heard a polite, reserved tap on his door and assumed wrongly that it was his daughter.

"Come in."

His office door opened, but he was looking at his desk, rifling through paperwork. It was only when several minutes went by without a word that he looked up.

And saw Armande de Seville standing in the middle of the room.

Fear flashed behind Richellou's heart, down his spine, into his gut. Armande's face was calm, but he was clearly unhappy with the High Councillor. His presence was like the eye of a hurricane on the mount, no wind, no sky, just dark clouds brewing.

Resentment gave Richellou courage, foolhardy as it was.

"For what have you come here?"

The stillness broke as Armande's legs moved underneath him, bringing him closer to Richellou's desk; the old man opened his mouth to order that Armande approach no closer, then shut it stubbornly, furious at himself for even considering such a concession.

"I need a weapon made," Armande replied, black eyes drilling into Richellou like the coldness of a star boring into a winter snow. "And because your orders to the blacksmith prevent him filling my request, I thought perhaps you could see to it."

If blood draining from one's face was voluntary, Richellou would have stopped his own face from drawing pale.

"Why would I order such a thing?" Richellou demanded, standing, not wishing to be under Armande's glare any longer; it was no use, as the glare shifted about the room as Richellou did.

"I don't care why," Armande replied, so calm that open rage would have been preferrable.

At that moment, another knock sounded, and before Richellou beckoned the culprit in, the door opened and his daughter swept inside.

Richellou was an old man; as such, his daughter was grown, at least thirty years old and married for some time. She was a lovely woman, regardless, possessing a curious youth that persisted age, and that, at present, shone out of her face and eyes even in the tense discomfort of the situation.

Armande's eyes moved from Richellou, to his daughter, then back to Richellou. Nothing needed to be said; Richellou nodded. "I'll speak with the smith."

Armande nodded his head. He moved toward the door, which, naturally, brought him quite close to Richellou's daughter. Terror reared up in the High Councillor, but he dared not speak it, as if to cry out would push Armande to violence that he otherwise would have not bothered with. In passing, Armande stopped beside her; she watched him warily, as everyone did, but pulled her lips in a small smile and nodded to him.

Armande took her hand and, bowing cordially, kissed it with a courtier's charm.

Taken off guard, Richellou's daughter just stared as Armande straightened and exited the room, shooting one last sly, smug-smothered threat through his eyes at Richellou.

As their eyes met, an odd reflection of the light flickered across Armande's eyes. The candlelight that brightened the room was bright, but regardless, the flash of gold sent ice down Richellou's spine.

Once the door was shut, Richellou breathed again.

"Adelaide!" he scolded without knowing why. She was a grown woman, but the instinct of a father ran deep, and he felt as though she should have intuited the danger better.

Ignoring his outburst, Adelaide crossed the room in a few large strides and embraced her father tightly.

"Oh, Father!" she exclaimed, smiling. "I have the most wonderful news!"

The blacksmith was completely forgotten. Armande weaved through the Ainsi, thinking.

He had never thought a great deal about the source of his sixth sense. His mother had had it, his father had not. Armande had grown using it at will, telling no one because no one had asked. It became clear, in his teenage years, that it was a unique gift, and he concealed it. He had used it mercilessly in escaping the Ainsi when the time came, determining which pursuers to kill and which to leave wounded. It was no more remarkable to him than eyesight, or hearing. He often forgot how rare it was.

This is why, when he passed his Eagle's sight over the inside of Richellou's office, he was shocked to find so many glowing, obvious, unprotected hidden doors and secret compartments.

It was bizarre. The walls, the floor, the desk, the bookshelves, even the frame of the door itself were enclaves of hidden trapdoors. They were tiny; most were big enough to conceal a book, some were even smaller still. They were like a myriad of gold windows, dotting every surface. What on earth was Richellou hiding in all of them?

Armande was going to find out; without hesitation, he knew he would to get into Richellou's office. Alone.

"Hey, you."

Someone caught Armande's arm; typically, he would be alarmed, but when he turned, he thought for a moment it was Dahlia who had caught him. Then he blinked, focused, and took in the details. It was Eliane; her resemblance to her daughter was acute. Small differences, like Eliane's snobby chin and the vague lines about her mouth and nose from too many years of frowning. Beneath these, however, she was quite lovely, quite as she had been when Armande had first seen her, as he was growing up in the Ainsi; he and Eliane went back further than Dahlia's time.

"Always a pleasure, Eliane," he scowled, not bothering to tempt her into a rage today.

Armande noted the location; she had waited until he was in an isolated hall, away from prying eyes, to make her move. What move would that be? In a fit of sentimentality, Armande hoped it would not be one that required him to kill both Dahlia's parents.

"Are you not finished destroying my family?" she hissed. Eliane's fingers still dug into Armande's arm; he eyed them blandly, not caring but for her nerve to touch him. But then, maybe it wasn't so bad; at least someone here didn't think he was a contagious disease. Rolling back to her words, Armande shrugged.

"I had thought so, but if you deem that incorrect, far be it from me to argue."

"You never change," Eliane threw his arm back at him.

"You, unfortunately, have," Armande replied.

Eliane stared; without a mocking grin to accompany his every comment, it seemed that she could not distinguish a serious reply from an obnoxious one. Her stare darkened.

"What part of 'stay away from Dahlia' did you misunderstand?"

"I meant to speak with you of that," Armande crossed his arms. "But it took so long for you to call on me, I forgot. Have you spent the last three months summoning up the courage to threaten me?"

"I've spent them exercising restraint on my blade arm!" Eliane snapped. She wasn't wearing a sword, but the hilt of a dagger was visible at the top of each boot, and Armande doubted that was the worst of it. He wasn't worried for himself; he worried that Eliane might try to make a fool out of herself.

She seemed to read his thoughts. Her wild fury simmered into a spiteful calm that was alarmingly similar to Dahlia's. Armande shivered; hopefully, he didn't start to see Eliane in Dahlia's face from now on. The association might never die.

"Where is your chest armor, Armande?" Eliane asked suddenly. "Does it still bear the mark I left on it?"

At this, Armande grew uncomfortable; the night he had murdered Dahlia's father, Leandre Touveilles senior, he had battled with Eliane. Not sparred, not fought; she had poured every desperate drop of strength she had into her pursuit of killing him, and had failed. In fact, it was Armande's own cruelty that had spared Eliane's life, instead of sending her into death with her beloved husband. But before her defeat, Eliane had come a hairsbreadth from at least wounding Armande; if he had not been wearing his armor, which, for any other target, he would not have, she would have eviscerated him. As it was, a deep gash lacerated the front of his leather chest plate. He had never repaired it, least of all because he had never found a leathersmith with the skill to replicate the intricate detail. It was among his belongings in his apartment. He hadn't worn it since arriving, and then, it had been underneath his coat.

"It does," he admitted.

The reminder was subtle. She had come close to her goal once. And Armande was certain that in the ten years he had been absent, she had not forgotten to practice.

Curiosity stirred, and Armande drew his own swordbreaker. Eliane tensed; she had obviously not expected this.

"Perhaps," he suggested idly, "you'd like to try again?"

It wasn't clear where this came from; even Armande couldn't say for sure. Was he trying to put Eliane in her place? No. Was he trying to make sure she wasn't really a threat? Perhaps not. No, Armande offered this opportunity to Eliane out of obligation. He needed to fight her again, to satisfy some perverse sense of balance.

Eliane didn't draw a weapon. "What are you up to?"

"Perhaps I want a demonstration of your skill," Armande taunted. "To gage the need to keep an eye over my shoulder whislt I am here."

It only took a moment for Eliane to decide. Then, she was in motion.

Metal clanged off metal as Armande snapped his blade arm up to meet Eliane's. He saw sparks; before they faded, Eliane had already twisted to make a stab at his naval. He threw his weight back and fell into a backwards roll. From the resulting crouch, he assessed Eliane, who circled with her knife at the ready. In this small corridor, she had the advantage with her smaller size. In most every fight he had ever been in, Armande's taller height, longer limbs, and greater strenght was a boon; now, at least in part, it was a hindrance. He had not thought this out well.

In the meantime, Eliane was drawing near enough to chance wide sweeps in traditional knife-fight form, from which Armande responded in uninspired dodges. She got a little too close and clipped his chin. Armande had undersestimated her reach, and was careful to maintain distance after that.

When the wall was too close for him to dodge any further, Armande was ready; Eliane came in for a downward slice, and Armande twisted the dagger off course with the precision timing of a long-practiced hand at the trade. He tried to wrest it from her grip. To his surprise, she gave under the pressure of his blade and vanished from behind her own.

A sharp weight on his groin made Armande freeze. The movements that had put her there were a blur, but Eliane had him backed against the corridor wall, dagger to his genitals, daring him with her eyes to make a move. He didn't dare, not with that much at stake.

"I can't tell you how long I've dreamt of this situation," Eliane hissed at him. "I could never express to you the years I spent longing to be where I am now."

"What, fondling me?"

The pressure increased, and Armande fell silent, at least temporarily.

"Do you have any idea what you put her through?" Eliane asked suddenly. The rage in her eyes turned pained, and as she continued her angry growl took on a note of despair. "How can you understand the months I watched my daughter die, a little at a time, both literally and figuratively, not knowing if she would come back? How dare you come back here and-and act as if you have nothing to be ashamed of?"

Armande had no answer. He met Eliane's quivering brown eyes without offering a response.

This seemed to be all the answer she needed. With an angry huff, she drew away from Armande, sheathed her dagger, and strode away down the hall in one fluid motion.

"Before you go, Eliane."

She froze. With a twitching, stiff movement she turned her head to glare over her shoulder.

Armande remained leaning against the corridor wall. "Speaking of times long past. There was something I thought to ask you."

"What?" she hissed.

"In Dahlia's bedroom all those years ago, hidden in her bedpost, were maps and documents. Why? Why there? Why not in your own room, or in a secret chamber of some sort?"

Eliane stared, unsettled. "How did you know about those?"

"I took them."

She scoffed. "Indeed. I would not be surprised."

"And my question?"

"That room was first Madeliene's, who was an Assassin." Eliane had already resumed her pace down the hall. "When our elder daughter left home, we were advised to move Dahlia there, instead. It was assumed that should the opportunity arise, her chambers would be less likely than our own to contain secrets, and more likely to be protected."

"Not very well," Armande threw back, before he thought to curb his tongue.

Eliane stopped. She didn't turn back, but for a time, she just stood there, as if fighting the urge to. Eventually, she continued on, away.

"Just a warning to you, Armande de Seville," she called over her shoulder. "Dahlia is no longer a child. My daughter is my equal in battle. I'll be the least of your concerns if you should hurt her again."

"You're bleeding."

Armande felt his chin with his sleeve; it came away red. His face was bleeding quite profusely. Dahlia handed him her handkerchief patiently, without a word, and he took it and proceeded to clean the blood off.

"I ran into a wall."

"Save your stories. I didn't ask."

Armande had come upon Dahlia in the Library. She was tucked away, sitting amongst a few stacks of books that she was leafing through. Armande looked around at the titles; a few were in Italian, those he could not read. She was engrossed in one tome that sat open on her lap. Leaning over it, her hair pulled to one side, a long expanse of neck was exposed.

Eliane's words still bounced around in Armande's head, giving him a headache. There had been a time when the sight of a perfect neck, as Dahlia's was, would have prompted him to snap it, break, crush, destroy. He could still feel the thrill of another's life literally in his hand. But when he thought of Dahlia in such a way... His stomach clenched painfully; Armande banished the thought, before he gave himself an ulcer.

Instead, he scooted closer to Dahlia on the floor. She either ignored him or didn't notice; when he leaned over and kissed her neck softly, however, Dahlia looked up at him.

Pure shock. Armande knew he had taken her off-guard, and took advantage of the moment to kiss her lips, as well. He sat beside her, back resting against the bookshelf, and picked up one of the books she had set out. It was Claudia's diary, again; he caught Dahlia watching him pensively.

"Que?"

"You don't even speak Italian."

"I did, once. Perhaps a little review will bring it back. Perhaps you can help me with that later?" He shot her a sly grin that drew out a smirk in response.

"We shall see." She shook her head, mocking. "So you ran into a wall?"

Armande closed the diary. "A rather angry wall, at that."

"Is that so."

"Hmm." Armande set the book down. "So what are you researching?"

"Nothing in particular," she shrugged. "Just some light reading. There seems to be too much time in the day, when Leandre is gone."

He dearly wanted to pursue the subject again, but Armande let it pass. "What about?"

"At the moment, I'm reading about Marc Antony."

"The same who fell in love with Cleopatra?"

"I know of only one," she replied. "I wonder..." she set the book in her lap and rested her head against the bookshelf behind her. "I wonder, if Marc Antony had known what would happen, if he still would have gone to Egypt? If he had known he was going to turn into a pawn in Octavius' power game, what would he have done differently?"

"He would not have left Egypt," Armande answered. "If he had known he would eventually die separated from the Pharoah, Cleopatra, he would not have spent any unnecessary time away from her."

This response, unplanned and unintentionally spoken, left a gaping silence between them that begged to be filled. Armande had no idea where the words had come from, but he longed to take them back; Dahlia just kept watching him, as if measuring him against some invisible measuring cord.

"I think you're right," Dahlia agreed.

Silence glided in again, and this time, Dahlia broke it.

"Your name, Seville," she started, inquisitive. "It isn't French."

"No," Armande agreed. "It is Spanish. The city of Seville; it is where my father was born. He had no surname, so when he came to France..."

"Je vois," Dahlia nodded. "And the 'de'? You don't strike me as noble."

Armande raised an eyebrow. "I have my moments."

Dahlia chuckled harshly, again shaking her head.

"In truth, I don't really know," Armande replied. "It seems unnecessary, among Assassins. But, I have grown accustomed to the sound of it."

"Hmm," Dahlia agreed wordlessly.

"Yours is odd, as well," Armande pointed out absently. "Dahlia is a rather low-born name, for one such as yourself."

She raised her eyebrows at him; he could see his humor was only partly well-recieved. He shrugged his shoulders; Dahlia rolled her eyes and returned to her book.

"Men are idiots," she muttered. "And in the name of continuing the species, women are eternally having to endure their attention..."

"Speaking of women who're attended by idiots," Armande began suddenly, unwilling to lose her to her reading yet again. "I've come across some interesting news: Richellou's daughter is pregnant."

"I'm surprised she confided in you," Dahlia raised an eyebrow, looking up from her book.

"Let's just say I overheard." In truth, Armande had recognized the swell of life force hovering in Adelaide's womb that afternoon, but was unwilling to confess this to Dahlia. He snorted. "The stupid whore."

This was the wrong thing to say. Dahlia's book snapped shut. "And what makes you say that?"

His error was obvious in her words and tone, but Armande doubted he could fix it, at this point. He didn't even have a decent reply, so Dahlia blasted on, instantly furious.

"Just because a woman is pregnant," Dahlia scoffed, disbelieving, "is suddenly reason to think less of her. One would think, from the behavior of men such as yourself, that the moment a child is concieved, the mother's brain begins to dwindle! I can tell you, from firsthand experience, that is not the case. But, damn, is it difficult to carry a serious conversation when one is with child! I can't tell you how often I felt the need to say, 'Excuse me, Monseiur? If you can take your mind off the LIFE growing in my WOMB, and PAY ATTENTION to the words I am speaking!'"

"Feel free to speak your mind, now, don't be shy," Armande teased.

There was no response; Dahlia had ground to halt suddenly, and Armande leapt at the chance to divert her aggravation.

"What does this sentence say?"

Dahlia glanced over at it, then smacked his arm lightly. "I'm not translating that, you rogue. For one who doesn't speak much Italian, you certainly remember the important words, don't you?"

Success; Armande gloated a bit to himself that he had had a rare victory in pulling Dahlia into a joke at her expense. She was usually too sharp to fall for it. He flipped through the diary again, amused at the private thoughts of Claudia Auditore, or, at least, what he could understand of them.

"It's a little invasive to have someone's diary on a shelf for anyone to read," Dahlia protested, though she had turned back to her own book. Despite this, she seemed distracted, and didn't focus on the pages. "Even someone long dead."

Armande shrugged and went on skimming the diary. He recognized a few words. Names, mostly. Ezio, Mario, Machiavelli, the words for mother and father, and the names of her two executed brothers. Simple nouns, as well, were often similar to their French counterparts.

"If I had to guess, I would say she's quite taken with apples," Armande muttered. Several pages had that word, apple, printed all over it in almost every sentence.

He felt Dahlia stare at him. "Que?" he looked up at her.

Dahlia had the strangest look on her face. Shock? Alarm?

Totally confused, Armande refused to show it and acted as if he hadn't noticed. Losing interest in Claudia's odd fascination with fruit, he closed the book and set it back on the stack he had picked it up from.

"When is Richellou in his office? Do you know?"

Dahlia didn't seem to hear. She was clearly lost in thought, to a depth that unsettled Armande.

"Dahlia?"

"Oh," she mumbled, shaking her head. "He... he... what time is it?"

"It can't be past three."

"He's already gone," she replied, assuming Richellou in his office was what Armande sought. "Most days he meets with all the council members in the early afternoon. He won't be back in his office until after supper." She began to stack books again, and stood, clearly making to return them to their shelves. Armande stood and picked up a stack, though he didn't know where they went.

"Leave them," Dahlia instructed, not looking at him. "You don't know where they go. I'll get them myself."

She was staring in every direction except his. Armande set the books down, concerned.

"Are you all right, Dahlia?" He reached out for her hand.

She snatched it away. "I'm fine," she spat, still not looking at him.

Confusion churned in Armande's brain, as if the pounding ocean waves outside were packed into his head. She had been fine a moment ago; what was wrong with her? In three months, she hadn't displayed the kind of mercurial instability that had apparated in the last three minutes. It was obvious she was upset; Armande didn't know how to handle Dahlia upset.

Still at a loss, his humor still oddly bruised from her abrupt dismissal, Armande turned away and left her to her own devices. It was just as well. He had places to be, before Richellou returned.

The stables wafted the rich smell of horses all around Armande; there was no escaping it, but the salty, dusty scent of horses and the clean scent of fresh hay was one that he could live with.

He made his way down the stalls, examining each occupant. Some were attended; these, Armande walked past without comment. Some stalls were empty; these, also, he passed over without time wasting wondering. He was a little picky about his horseflesh, and he knew that there had to be a good one left here, somewhere.

Finally, he found him. The gelding was passively nosing an empty bag of feed in one corner when Armande entered the stall. The horse craned his neck around to examine his visitor; when Armande came closer and began to stroke his great, reddish-brown neck, the gelding decided that Armande was a friend.

"You're a pretty one, aren't you?" Armande murmured, as one often does when in the presence of beasts of such magnitude. Their gentleness is infectious; you find yourself calm and talkative. Armande looped the halter around the horse's head and secured it. "You have good hooves, too. It's a shame you're breeding days are over."

"Perhaps that was the way to solve you," Manon commented from the entrance of the stall. Armande glanced over; she was dressed to ride, a palomino mare saddled and ready to go poking a great curious head over Manon's shoulder.

Armande huffed. Whether or not he agreed, he couldn't exactly argue. Maybe that would have solved the problem the Brotherhood had found in him.

It would have solved Dahlia's problem with him, Armande thought to himself.

Something of his troubling thoughts might have shown on his face; Manon leaned against the wall of his horse's enclosure. "Ride with me?"

"You know," Armande muttered as he fetched the gelding's tack. The name 'Charles' was tooled across the leather of the pommel. "In our youth, I would have liked to hear those words from you." He raised an eyebrow at Manon. She chuckled and shook her head.

"Why is it so easy to forget what you are, Armande de Seville?"

Armande's hand slowed in the motion of tightening the cinch around the horse's girth. He could feel Manon watching him steadily, see her out of the corner of his eye. He chose not to answer, fastening the straps that held the saddle in place and fixing the bridle on Charles' head. He took the reigns and led him out.

"Will you ride with me?" she asked again. "You look in need of an ear."

Armande snorted. "An ear, a brain. If you can lend me either one, I am open to it."

"Fair enough."

It being winter, the two were padded down with two layers of coats and still the icy sea wind chilled them. They followed the path out of the Ainsi up to the clifftops above, where the worst of the gale blasted their hoods off their faces. Armande didn't mind; he needed some air, anyway.

"The situation in Paris worsens," Manon commented quietly.

"I know," Armande replied.

"You still have your own contacts in France?"

"No," he shrugged. "But worse is the only thing it can become, at this point."

They let their horses walk across the dusting of snow that clung to the highgrass, scrubby and dead in the depths of December. There was something Manon wanted to say; it was evident in her silence. But then, Armande thought to himself, Manon usually kept to herself. Unless necessary.

She was a very different woman that she had been when he left; that had been over twenty-five years ago, however, so the change was not unexpected. In their youth, Manon had been less wise, but just as quiet, though back then it could have been shyness. She had worn her hair long, then; now it was cut short as a boy's, completely out of keeping with the current style, but practical and curt. As she was.

As they travelled, Armande studied the landscape with his eyes; little had changed. Soon, though, he would have to diverge from Manon and find an excuse to be alone.

"I..."

Manon's started sentence faded off, and Armande glanced over at her. The fine lines around her eyes were never more visible, out in the harsh, bleak daylight of winter clouds and with her face tight with strain as it was. She tried again, obviously finding whatever she intended to say difficult to confess.

"I find that I was wrong," she admitted. "On the road to the Ainsi, I was suspicious of you." She sighed, not looking at him. "Still, I doubt your reasons for coming back. But the behavior of this complex has been... unprofessional. Maybe you were the only one capable of this mission, after all."

Armande didn't answer. Neither did he wait for her to make eye contact, finding the seams of his saddle entrancingly interesting all of the sudden. He let Manon take her time tracing a circle around the subject at hand; she would reach it eventually.

"I remember well the day you left," she continued. At this, Armande found himself listening intently. "I was twenty-two, and had never known fear in the face of adversary before then." Manon watched the horizon, almost dreamily, a twitch of a frown in the sharp of her eye and thinness of her mouth. "But when we went after you... I've never seen anything like it, before or since. We were unorganized and unprepared, and not all of us were willing to set our numbers against one of our own, but still... Parents today who were young then tell stories to their children about you. You fought like a demon, or a god."

"It's remarkable what one will do to survive," Armande remarked dryly.

Manon raised her eyebrows in a gesture of agreement. "And what you did to Dahlia? To the others you used and left dead in your path? Was that to survive?"

"If you brought me out here to interrogate me-"

"No," she stopped him, shaking her head. "I have no intention of adding my name to the list of those who judge you. I prefer to stay out of the trial altogether. It makes things easier for me to see clearly. In the interest of seeing things as they are, however, I wanted to ask your side of the story."

Armande stopped his horse completely. Manon did the same.

He stared at her, disbelieving. "For what purpose?"

"I told you," she answered. "For twenty years I've wondered what the hell happened. I can't take a side or even form an opinion justly, not knowing."

"Justly?" Armande asked, incredulous. "I've been in exile for two decades, I've been the shame of the order for longer than that, and now, NOW, someone seeks justice?"

Manon was unmoved. "Is it too late to wonder? There was a time when we were very close to being friends. And there are rumblings among us, the Brotherhood, what is left of it. We grow weak, and it isn't difficult to see where our weakness stands."

For a moment, Armande didn't understand what she meant. Then it struck him.

"A coup?" Armande whispered.

She didn't agree or deny. "The Council is weaker than it has ever been. In turn, so are we. When you first arrived, we all assumed that perhaps the Council guessed at our unrest and intended to bring you back to keep us all in line. I have come to doubt that, immensely. But there are those among us who wonder if you would take a side, if the occasion arose."

"I'll think on it," Armande offered curtly.

This obviously wasn't the answer Manon expected, but she let it be. With an equally curt nod to Armande, she turned her mare's head away and took another trail that led her over the cliffs to the north; Armande watched her go, trying to glean if it was all one big trap.

Meanwhile, he moved Charles in the direction he truly had in mind; to the lip of the Ainsi. Climbing up the walls was not a reasonable possibility. Richellou's office windows were near the top, and someone was bound to spot him on the ascent. Climbing down, however...

The top of the cliffs were flat, not a rock or tree to be found. Armande was forced to secure Charles' reigns to the saddle and hope for the best. The big gelding began to nose the short grass immediately; Armande doubted he would cause a problem.

"Wait here," he instructed whimsically as he turned to the gaping well of the Assassin complex.

Armande shifted into Eagle vision.

Richellou's window shimmered across the way, glowing in the gold of the target. The room, according to Dahlia, was empty, and Armande was eager to reach it and complete his business there before that changed. He reverted out of his sixth sense and searched the cliff edge for a good place to descend.

As luck would have it, there were few places with half-way decent handholds at the Ainsi's lip, and with the icy spray off the ocean slicking the rock face, Armande was not satisfied with only half-way decent ledges. His best shot for a path down was almost directly across the Ainsi from Richellou's office. "Damn it all," Armande muttered as he climbed down in this location. Once beyond the initial strech of bare stone, there were carved windows, ledges, decorative features, and other elements to use. The only problem was making a path around the circumference of the canyon without hanging like a fish on a hook before someone's window and giving away his actions in a most embarassing fashion.

Picking carefully from ledge to ledge, only having to cross the glass of a windowpane directly a few times, and those empty rooms, Armande made his way to the glowing gold target.

Richellou's windows were latched, not locked; it was a simple matter of slipping his dagger between the shutters and lifting the latch from the outside, and Armande was standing in the empty office. And the glowing patches of hidden doors called to him.

He went to the nearest. There was no lock; it was merely hidden in the wall between two hanging portraits, the frames of each obscuring the thin lines the hidden compartment's edges made in the wood paneling. It was filled with papers. He skimmed them, but they were in damned Italian.

Armande went to the second, leaving the first open. This was a narrow section of the doorframe hollowed out. Like the first, it contained documents, rolled up and stashed away. He took them out, relieved to find French, and read.

After a few minutes, he returned the rolled papers to their hiding place. They contained a detailed account of a very embarassing encounter of a council member, involving family that she kept contact with among Templar ranks. It was about Justine. To the best of Armande's imagination, he could not see treachery in this document; it merely proved that Justine had Templar ties, and had not severed them completely. Her younger brother was among their ranks, and she wrote to him of personal matters.

The third and fourth and fifth hidden compartment were much the same, one in English, two in French. It was becoming quite clear how Richellou had attained a position as High Councillor; he had blackmail over the heads of most of his fellow councillors. Eliane was the only complete exception. And apart from the Council, other, important figures in the Assassin world were litanized among Richellou's papers, until it was obvious that he held considerable sway over not only France, but some of the other, nearby countries as well.

Armande returned everything to its place, not certain what he wanted to do with this information. He sat at Richellou's desk, thinking.

This was incredible. Richellou had always been deep in his books when Armande had lived here last, and it seemed his studying had paid off. It was little of Armande's concern, to be sure, but if this was how Richellou controlled the Assassin complex, how he was driving it into the ground, perhaps it was best that this information be disposed of.

There was one last compartment that Armande hadn't yet checked. Still considering what should be done, he popped the cover off a panel under the desk.

He removed a heavy, leather-bound tome and a smaller cloth-bound one.

The leather one was quite old. He set it aside to flip through the cloth book first. The cover was blank, no ornamentation or title, but within the pages were filled with notes, charts, and names.

It was a handbook of geneology. Thankfully, it was writtin in French, though many of the names were from all over the world.

"Altair Ibn al'Ahad?" Armande murmured as he read the name. Maria Thorpe... their sons, Sef and Darim, and Sef's family took up several pages. Altair had been an only child, it seemed, as his parents, also, were meticulously tracked and traced. Armande flipped forward in the book, to Persia, Rome, the Orient and the Mediterranean, and every other place he could imagine. To Italy.

"Ezio Auditore." And Claudia, and their parents and extended family.

Armande was impressed at the detail of the research, but had no idea how it was so vital to Richellou. If this work was origianlly the High Councillor's, and it was in his hand, then it must have taken him years to compile it, years to find all this information. Why?

And then, the answer began to form. Toward the end of the writing, where the blank pages began, was the name Devana Firette. Armande's mother, before she became Devana de Seville. His father's name was not listed, until it was joined to hers. Until from their marriage, two other names were produced to be listed in Richellou's book of bloodlines.

Jacqueline de Seville. Armande de Seville.

Armande closed the book.

The leather tome was no book of names. A growing excitement roused Armande's intrigue and made him forget, for the moment, the disturbing revelations that the previous book had stirred as he browsed the pages. This was it; this was a copy of the famous Codex, written by Altair, pieced together by Ezio, lost in the seige of Monterggioni, and, apparently, found and transcribed into the form Armande held open on the desk.

Armande read through it, skimming pages, noting illustrations. When suddenly, out of a page much like the others, a word leapt out at him.

Apple.

Slowing, he found the top of the page with his eyes and began to read.

The Council was just grinding to an end, another day, no surprise, of discussing the benefits and drawbacks of retaining Armande de Seville even a day longer. Richellou himself couldn't remember why he had insisted upon calling the outcast back, at times. This was one of those times, as the door to the Council Chamber slammed open and Armande de Seville himself stormed in, furious.

"OUT," he barked as the weighted door closed itself behind him. He glared at Richellou, but he spoke to the other councillors.

Justine was the first to break the shocked stillness. "Now, see here, Armande, this is a breach of even the low standards at which we hold you-"

"I. Will. Not. Say. It. Twice."

There was no response. Richellou was staring at the book Armande clutched in one hand.

"Get out," Richellou demanded, still fixed on the book. The Codex.

"This is outrageous," Eliane hissed, getting to her feet. "This behavior is unacceptable! Worse from you than him, Richellou!"

"Can no one hear? Out!" Richellou repeated, standing, a vein in his forehead growing prominent.

The door had only been closed after the last councillor when Richellou began. "Where did you get that?"

"From your office, you twat!" Armande threw the Codex down on the table in front of Richellou. "What in all hell's name is wrong with you? You left such power in the wilderness to rot? You left it for any damn fool to stumble on?"

"That's where you went to!" Richellou bellowed. "I knew you were up to something when you fled so quickly!"

"Fled?" Armande had thundered to the table's edge, and now stood across it from Richellou, ready to leap across the whole damn thing and throttle Richellou for the damn imbecile he was. "I went to find an empty vault! Someone's already stolen one!"

Richellou laughed darkly. "That's a lie. Come now, Armande, what did you do with it? Or could you find it at all?"

Armande's mouth dropped open, aghast. "Did you hear me? Someone, somewhere, has a Goddamn Piece of Eden, and is waiting for the time to use it! Does this not concern you!"

"What concerns me is that the existence of an Artifact of such power is known to you!" Richellou shouted, face red with the exertion and stress.

A knock at the door interrupted their screaming match.

"What?" Richellou shouted at the door.

Eliane entered.

"You should come, quickly," she instructed, urgent. Her eyes traveled over Armande. "Both of you.

In the harbor, a crowd had gathered. The docks were lousy with onlookers, and Armande and Richellou had to push through to reach the center of the attraction. Oddly, when people noticed it was Armande who sought passage, they backed away, whispering. It was a bad sign.

There had been a death; the body lay on the end of the dock, fished out of the water. The adolescent skin was icy and pale, like transluscent marble, a dark stain of a bruise circling his neck. His neck had been broken, likely before his fall into the bay. Further examination would tell, but, Armande knew what it would find.

He looked up and met Richellou's eyes, and saw exactly what he expected to find there. Armande looked around at the crowd, seeing accustation and loathing at every turn. He knew what this looked like.

The corpse was one of the boys who he had chased out of the Library almost his first day back. One of the ones he had openly threatened to kill.


	5. Chapter 5

Eliane watched her daughter thoughtfully.

The past few months had been upsetting. Eliane had assumed that the return of Armande de Seville would be a cause of distress for Dahlia, or perhaps that Dahlia would rise above her previous fear and join Eliane in actively hating the man. It seemed only natural. Instead... this. This strange, sad romance between her daughter and the man who had murdered Dahlia's own father. The man who had been a pariah to the Assassin order for over twenty years. The creature who had raped Dahlia, shattered her.

Perhaps Dahlia had forgotten how broken she had been, Eliane mused. There was a possibility that the girl had pushed the horrifying reality so far back, so far away, that she no longer recalled it correctly.

But Eliane remembered. And now, here they were, a mother and daughter, one helplessly watching as the other hopelessly skipped into a marsh of bad decisions.

"What are you staring at?" Dahlia asked, listless.

Eliane didn't answer immediately. Lately, Dahlia had become even more withdrawn than usual. As much as she wished to blame it on the presence of Armande, and it likely was in part his fault, Eliane sensed a deeper worry, one that was not so easily assuaged.

"I would know what bothers you, Dolly," Eliane said finally.

Dahlia looked up; no one had used that name for her in years.

Disarmed by the nickname, Dahlia's fugue seemed to let up for a moment as she thought. Despite this, her response was not satisfactory. "I just have a great deal on my mind, Mother. Nothing to worry about."

Disappointed, Eliane tried again.

"It is Armande de Seville, is it not?"

"It is," Dahlia admitted readily. Her daughter's straightforward nature was sometimes unnerving to Eliane, but she pressed forward.

"You have had a disagreement?" This was false, she knew. Everyone in the Ainsi watched her daughter and unlikely suitor's every move, these days. If anything so obvious had happened, word would have already reached Eliane's ears. The bickering in the Library did not seem enough to bring her usually level-headed child down. But then, Dahlia was not acting her usual level-headed self, as the past strange weeks had proven. When Dahlia took some time to respond, Eliane pushed a little farther. "Perhaps you are simply not suited to each other."

Suddenly, Eliane found her chlid's steady, scrutinizing eyes focused on her.

"I do not doubt that we are not suited to each other," Dahlia replied flatly. "It is one of our greatest sources of common ground: neither of us are very suitable for anyone. It's just sex, Mother, no one is talking of forever after."

Sufficiently silenced, Eliane didn't answer.

Dahlia was trying to throw her off. Although it was what Eliane wanted to believe more than anything in the world, she knew that her daughter wasn't as detached from this situation as she appeared.

Deterred, Eliane turned instead to the pasttime she had entertained for some days now: discovering the problem herself. Her first thought turned to violence. Armande had tried to force himself on her again, even though there was no need. But, no. Dahlia was no weakling anymore. And if Armande had tried any such thing, it would have gotten out. Everyone would know; someone would have heard the struggle, if Dahlia didn't come out and turn him in herself. Then, perhaps he had begun to take other lovers, not satisfied with one. Again, doubtful. The Armande de Seville that Eliane remembered had been somewhat amorous, but since his return he was undefinably changed and seemed preoccupied in his own agenda. And then, naturally, Eliane turned to this hidden goal that Armande must have for coming back and considered that Dahlia may have come at odds with some facet of his plot.

Again, Eliane couldn't see it. Dahlia was distant and sometimes cold, but she was unlikely to be cowed into helping a madman with his bizarre charade.

And so, Eliane was back to chasing less and less possible theories, theories that fled faster from likeligood and grew more evanescent and grasping.

It was something obvious, she felt. In her gut, Eliane knew it was something that would seem as obvious as daylight, if she could just pinpoint it.

"Men can be very inconvenient," Dahlia gruffed suddenly. The outburst was completely unexpected, and Eliane was quite sure that whatever she answered, it would stop Dahlia's talkativeness. She tried anyway.

"Yes, they can," she agreed slowly. "Is that what ails you? Armande... being inconvenient?"

Dahlia was watching the window grow dark with twilight. She sighed, but said nothing further.

"Dahlia," Eliane began, as patiently as she could. Somewhere under the years she had spent in bitterness, the love Eliane had for her daughter still glowed; she called on it now, trying to forget Armande and focus on Dahlia, who should have been the focus all along. "I know we have been at odds lately."

Dahlia smirked, even it the expression did lack bite. "Lately?"

Eliane nodded her agreement. "The past ten years, it's true. I'm not trying to tell you what to do."

"Yes you are," Dahlia sighed again.

It was the truth. Discouraged but stubborn, Eliane tried again. "Maybe I am trying to tell you what to do. I know I've been mistaken before, but I'm trying to help you." When Dahlia didn't answer, Eliane sat forward and rested a hand on her daughter's hand; this earned Dahlia's attention, and she finally forgot the window and turned to face her mother.

"You have little reason to trust me, anymore," Eliane started, pained to finally say the words out loud. "But if you're in trouble or if you need help, I want to help. I swear to you. I don't care about Armande as much as I care about you, not even close."

"And if I care about him too much?" Dahlia asked, so softly it was nearly a whisper. The effort to say this much to Eliane was clear, and it touched both women deeply. In respect to this, Eliane thought hard about her response; if she couldn't take this last chance to push her polluting hatred of Armande de Seville away, it was Dahlia who would be out of her reach.

"Sometimes we do care to much about those we shouldn't," Eliane answered slowly, treading with caution this unfamiliar ground. "It's easy to get caught up in what we feel, or what we think we feel, and not really test its depth. Don't worry, though- it passes. Things that aren't meant to be fade, and, well..." Eliane was watching Dahlia closely for signs of annoyance or indication that she had strayed into dangerous narrative. Thus far, her daughter's attention was neutral. Satisfied with anything less than offense, Eliane continued. "One day, on a day much like any other, you'll meet some man who cares about you. Someone who can support and accept support from you, who respects you, and protects you when needed. Someone who can love you and your son. When that day comes, and probably before, you'll forget about Armande de Seville."

And now, Eliane waited, letting her words sink in, unable to gage for herself if her opinion was sufficiently unbiased enough to mean anything.

Her concerns were wasted. After a moment of thought, Dahlia's face lost it's blank pallor. As if waking, life flooded back into her eyes, and a small, slow-budding smile appeared.

"Thank you," she said, and it might have been the first thing in ten years spoken to her mother, without anger, that she really meant.

Then Dahlia rose, lost in her own thoughts. She gave Eliane a hug, which threw her mother's world off-balance even further, and left.

After she was gone, Eliane stayed for some time, until the room grew dark with the deepening night. Still stunned from the unusual show of affection from Dahlia, it occupied her mind, overriding even the grudge she had emotionally fed off of this past decade. This moment with her daughter had uncovered something in Eliane's soul that she had almost forgotten, and now she was fearful to lose it again.

It was her relationship with her daughter, the sacred love that mothers and daughters should be privy to. It was something Eliane had been missing, and now that it had returned, it brought with it a new, yet not unfamiliar sense of concern.

Instead of hatred for the predator, she was plagued with fear for Dahlia. Because Eliane knew her well-meaning words had set thoughts into motion that she had very much wanted Dahlia to avoid.

What to do? Why, Eliane thought, there is one thing I can do.

For the thousandth time, Armande drew himself under control. "That's ridiculous. Why would I kill him? Or anyone here?"

"Is it so ridiculous?" Justine pressed, exhaustion pulling at the corners of her eyes. A Council had been called; the meeting hall was packed again, watching. The Nine were seating at the bench, and Armande was put in the humbling position of standing at the base of the bench looking up at them. This did not help his mood.

"It is a big coincidence," another councillor agreed. "We have witnesses who claim you threatened the boy openly."

"With a much more gruesome death," Richellou chimed in.

"And why would I waste my time with some kid still wet behind the ears?" Armande asked again, retaining the last spark of patience he could.

"Why should we offer an explanation for YOUR actions?" yet another councillor demanded. This man turned to Eliane, who sat beside him, who, thus far, had said nothing at all. "What say you, Madame? It is not obvious?"

Sitting with her arms crossed over her chest, Eliane had spent the last hour moodily watching Armande from her seat at the end of the bench, saying nothing, betraying nothing with either expression or action. Now, still gazing at him, as if her thoughts were elsewhere, she spoke up.

"Is there proof?"

Dumbfounded silence answered her.

"What proof do you need?" Richellou leaned forward to see Eliane past the councillors that sat between them.

"It is clearly stated in our laws that before any can be convicted of such a crime, there must be proof of their guilt. So, where is the evidence here?"

Richellou glared down at Armande, who managed to contain all but a shred of smirk taking form. The closest Richellou had to proof was the undeniable fact that Armande had been in his office, at the top of the Ainsi and therefore at the scene of the crime, when the youth was likely killed. But, how to explain that without risking the exposure of his myriad of secrets?

It was obvious that Richellou had no answer. Furious, he pushed forward.

"Let's put it to a vote, then, whether the circumstances are sufficient to warrant the consequences."

Agreement and nods answered him. Eliane snorted. "What circumstances? There's nothing linking him to the crime whatsoever."

Both Armande and Richellou were baffled. Eliane still watched him fixedly, and Armande stared back, asking the question with his eyes that she couldn't very well answer, at the moment. Richellou was less discreet.

"Silence, Councillor. There is a vote in motion. All who agree that the circumstances are sufficient?"

This was a mock trial if Armande ever saw one; regardless, he needn't have worried. Eliane's hand remained lowered. So did the hands of five other councillors. Richellou was visibly shaking, but let it go.

"The motion has failed," he announced. Close as he was, Armande could see the quiver in Richellou's jaw. "So be it."

"You are to leave within the week."

Armande didn't respond.

Richellou continued. "Our information points to Paris." He made no reference to Armande previous prediction. "You will travel alone within the next few days."

Still, Armande said nothing, leaning against the shadows of the wall in the Council chamber. The other councillors were gathered around the table; as a result, there was no room for him to sit. He preferred to stand, in any case. His silence went unnoticed.

"You are to report to the Palais Royale upon arrival, and work with the King's men to prevent the upcoming insurgence."

"Is that so?"

Armande hadn't spoken since the false trial. His words now were flat and sharp as a blade, and it sent a wave of unease through the chamber. Disgust was plain on his face, though he remained swathed out of the light, arms crossed. Before Richellou could respond, Armande continued.

"Perhaps I consider our agreement null and void."

Richellou paled, furious, and got to his feet. "If there is anyone here who sould consider our agreement null and void, it is we! As if anyone really believes you had nothing to do with that boy's death! You've been a murderer and a vagabond since you were a teenager, and the years haven't changed you! It was a mistake to ever bring you back here, and I don't know what-"

"Richellou," Justine interrupted warningly.

Richellou froze and looked back at the other councillors. A couple heads shook, saying without words that Richellou had come close to stepping too far. Bringing himself back under control, Richellou turned back to Armande.

"And what," he spat, more calm, now, "grievance might you have?"

"I was brought here under false circumstances," Armande answered. "I was told that there was an assignment for me. Yet I have been detained here; I have been watched circumspectly every time I step out of my door. I have been harassed, thwarted, and framed. It has become unwaveringly clear that I was not brought here for my services, but for my enemies."

No one replied for some time. Armande met Eliane's eyes over the table; they were still boring holes into his. After some time, Armande continued.

"I refuse this task. Find someone else."

Unfolding himself from his post, Armande passed one last, scathing glance over the Council and made for the door.

"You will take this task if you care about your son."

Armande stopped, back to the table, hand almost touching the doorknob. The air was still in the chamber; no one had taken a breath or moved. Turning, Armande fixed Richellou with a withering glare.

"Say that again," Armande threatened, nearly a whisper.

"If you refuse this task, I'll take it as complete betrayal of the Order," Richellou replied. "When Dahlia was a victim, her son had no connection to you. But we have reason to believe that she and her bastard are play equal part in your treason, with events of late."

Tension was visible in the muscles of Armande's shoulders and arms. Richellou, however, did not seem concerned. The other councillors were not so sure. Eliane, for her part, had finally moved her tranfixed attention from Armande and focused it on Richellou, horrified.

"That is ridiculous!" she stammered, half-standing.

"Stay your tongue," Richellou warned. "You are biased in this matter, you cannot see clearly what is happening."

"That is quite an accusation, Monsieur," Justine pointed out quietly.

"I don't think it is unjust," Richellou answered lightly, turning his back on Armande to reach under the table. "In any case, I think you will agree with me that this situation calls for...ah... extreme action?" He directed a heavy stare at her, and Justine obviously understood. She exhaled deeply. "I suppose it does," she murmured, lowering her eyes, refusing to meet Armande's or Eliane's.

"You will need this,' Richellou tossed an object over his shoulder to Armande, who caught it mechanically. It was the vambrace, equipped with the new pistol and old blade.

Armande glared at Richellou's back.

"What makes you think I care?"

It was Richellou's turn to freeze. Uncertainty seeped into his thoughts, and he turned to face Armande.

"You don't care if we disown your son?"

"Why should I?" Armande repeated, black disdain blank in his eyes. Eliane's face, up to now, betraying nothing, lit up with rage again.

Richellou, now worried, tried again. "You really don't care?"

"No."

For several seconds Richellou stood, staring, trying to concieve a reply. Something quavered in his voice when he spoke, either fury or fear. "Very well. He'll be shunned, as you are. You'll leave the boy to be an outcast, like yourself, thrown away by his own kind. It does seem like you. I don't know why I assumed you would care, after all the trouble you went through to abandon both him and his mother. I guess, after all, it is not very surprising."

Richellou cut off his rant. Armande was strapping on the vambrace.

In a blur of motion, Armande had Richellou by the throat, crushing his windpipe, the old councillor bent backwards almost to the surface of the table in an extremely uncomfortable vise. The other councillors had barely had time to act; Armande's vambrace was placed squarely under Richellou's chin.

"When do I leave?"

It took a moment for the meaning to sink in. Eliane's rage had vanished, as well as the alarm of the other councillors; they all stared, shocked, at Armande. Richellou gasped for air.

"In three days!" he choked.

Armande squeezed a little tighter. His face was passionless, eyes of dark glass watching without opinion as the hands attached to them performed what they might.

He dropped Richellou and spun away, storming out the door and leaving it to close itself.

The sea played an endless rhythm of crashing and receding, push and pull, as Armande walked in the night air on the Balcony. No one interrupted his thoughts, no one broke the night's silence as he contemplated the journey to come. Nothing had gone as he had expected, nothing. And now, to leave, so soon before he had sorted through the strange and unexpected, not to mention complex, emotions he was plagued by. Leverett, the killing, the mission, the Piece of Eden... Leandre, his son. Dahlia.

Armande paused by the railing and leaned heavily on it, resting his head in one hand. Moonlight washed over him, and a cold sea wind blasted suddenly over his overheating forehead. It felt wonderful, but even so, it was not enough to ease his worry. Had he ever been so dragged upon by such... menial worries? Death, capture, torture, failure... these anxieties made perfect sense. They had become a part of the life, a reality. But all these stresses... they tortured so precisely.

Some nagging twitch, some unease made him glance to the shadows of the pillars. A woman melted into them, watching him. As he did every time, Armade had to look closely to see the differences, the slightly taller build, the shorter hair, and the delicate lines of age that marked Eliane from her daughter.

"Something on your mind?" Eliane asked, in her usual spitful tone, as she walked forward to stand beside the railing with him.

"Not now, Eliane," Armande turned from her, watching the ocean. She had confused him, today, with her abnormal adherence to law in the face of her hatred for him. Armande wasn't sure if he wanted to discover teh meaning of her abrupt change of heart. "I have too much on my mind to pay any attention to you."

At first, he thought she might actually go away.

Instead, she moved closer. Armande tensed, ready for anything; Eliane was a fox of a woman who knew how to play unfairly. It was something that Armande would never, never admit his appreciation for. She stood beside the railing with him. There was some change, some indefinable difference in her now, and it made Armande doubly wary.

Without a word, she rested her hand over his where it rested on the stone. It was unexpected, yes, but Armande let it be, wildly suspicious and yet curious as to whether she would try to snap his wrist. Eliane did not; instead, she pulled his arm around herself, and leaned up towards his face.

Poison? Trap? Armande's brain sped to comprehend why this was happening as Eliane kissed him, slowly at first, and then more passionately. When her hand began to move up his thigh, his common sense sluggishly rolled back into motion.

"Eliane," Armande interrupted, leaning away from her. "What...?"

She squeezed him, gently through his trousers, and this time Armande stared. So like Dahlia...

At that thought, Armande forced life back into his numb fingers and tore Eliane's hand away. He stepped away from her sharply, defensively. He glared at her. "What the hell is the meaning of this?"

"What?" she asked, shrugging. "Am I too old for your tastes? Too close to your own age?"

Armande exhaled sharply, understanding. "Are you daft? What kind of mother are you, to do this to your own daughter? What is wrong with you?"

"Don't you ever," Eliane hissed, every word spat out at Armande, "suggest that I, in any way, desire you. The only thing that disgusts me more than the thought of your body near mine is the thought of you with my daughter."

"Then why?" Armande asked, so disheveled and confused he could hardly muster anger in return.

"Oh don't take that tone with me," she spat.

"Tell me what you're doing here, Eliane!" Armande shouted.

She fell still, glaring.

"Tell me!" he yelled again.

"I thought that if you had someone else to take your lust out upon, you could leave Dahlia alone," Eliane hissed. "You... you and your ways." She practially threw the last at him, volume increasing with every word. "And now, with the Council... as if you haven't destroyed enough of her life!"

"So you thought to seduce me!" Armande threw his hands up. "Well, Eliane, if I thought it would solve any of my problems, I would throw you down and take you here and now, but I doubt that would do anything except aggravate this pounding migraine I've developed and freeze my damn manhood out from between my legs, you frigid bitch!"

"You rutting cur!"

"You bitter hag!"

"You animal!"

"Oh, and we're back to this," Armande laughed, disbelieving.

"It is the root of the problem," Eliane snapped back.

Armande turned away from her, furious, and determinedly stared out at the ocean again. "You're a fool, Eliane."

"And you're a failure," she retorted, standing at the railing beside him, glaring out at the sea in barely-contained rage. "You'll never be anything else. And you'll drag Dahlia down with you."

Armande looked over at her. She was glaring at him, now. He growled, not wanting to talk with her anymore. Or ever again, if it could be avoided.

"I came here to tell you to leave her alone," Eliane answered. "Leave her be, leave my grandson be, just go your way and don't break anything on your way out. Don't lead her on some fantasy that will only destroy any chance she has left to forget you."

"Go away, Eliane," he murmured, returning to his examination of the tide. "Just... go away. Leave me alone."

She didn't move.

"Go away." His voice was dangerously low, now. Deadly, like the ebb before the next crashing wave.

Eliane finally seemed finished. She gave him one last, knowing, bitter smirk, before backing away. She disappeared back into the complex, leaving Armande alone again, alone and further still from the answers that he needed.

Armande slammed the door behind himself; it crashed shut in a reverberating clamor that reflected his mood perfectly. A fire was already burning, thanks to the devotion of whatever maid returned regularly to light it. He tore off his boots and threw them at the foot of the bed, needing something to release the building pressure of his frustration.

He screamed at nothing in particular, gesturing violently at the ceiling. Armande's hands came to rest on the mantel; it was a source of solidity in a moment of turbulent confusion. He leaned heavily against it, arms wide and face leaning close to the warmth of the fire. The cold outside was harsh in the seaside grasp of winter, and the heat of the flames eased away some of the tension Eliane's words had knotted into his shoulders and back.

What to do? She was right. Dahlia would throw away everything, just as Armande had thrown away everything, if he asked her to. She would do it anyway; though she was wise beyond her years, a woman was still an unreasonable desicion-maker. She had a life here, and a purpose, and a future. All he had was... death. Her mother wanted her to stay, not throw out Dahlia's happiness and the chance that their son might be a full Assassin. As for Armande...

He didn't even know what he wanted. What if she did come with him? What then? Would they steal away into the sunset, live as if none of the darkness, none of the pain had occurred? No. No- that wasn't possible. There was no forgetting, no erasing, what had scarred them both.

No living with it. He hated the fact, but he knew what he would have to do.

"Armande?"

Dahlia's voice brought him to his senses. Armande turned around; the sight of her promptly drove him out of them again.

From where she had obtained it, Armande had no idea, but she was waiting in the shadow of his bedcurtains, wearing a black, lacy, partially transparent garment that set his heart to racing. Her long hair was down - she never wore her hair down - and overall, she was so lovely, so sexy, Armande had absolutely nothing to say, no thoughts to hide behind for a length of time that made Dahlia smirk.

"Why don't you come to bed?" she asked lazily.

His brain tripped into motion.

"D-Dahlia, we need to speak," he said, cursing the involuntary stammer and the husky tremor his voice had taken on. Forcing the words through a tightly clenched jaw (even his muscles resisted this conversation!) he continued. "There's something I need to discuss with you." There. He had at least started himself on the right track. Now to block out the sight of her perfectly curved body, the thought of her skin under the lace...

"What a coincidence," Dahlia answered, moving closer to him across the room. She smiled, coy and inviting. "There is also something I wish to discuss with you."

"Then we should... discuss," Armande was caught between wanting to move closer to her, meet her across the floor and not bother moving to the bed and needing desperately to back away, put distance between them so that his mind might resume normal functioning. Had any woman ever gone to such lengths to seduce him? Not in his memory. That nagging piece of knowledge became yet another confusing pollutant to his already uncertain processes.

To his conflicting dismay and excitement, Dahlia moved closer, closer. "We should," she agreed, testing the thought in her tone and expression and Armande knew with a sinking of his gut, not to mention a rise of something else, what was coming next. She seemed to be thinking about the merit of discussion, and looked at him with yet another coy smile. "Perhaps it can wait," she concluded.

No, no, no. "Perhaps," Armande found the word slipping from where it had formed briefly in his mind to take form, and, worse, voice.

Her smile turned bright, happy. For a sickening moment, Armande was reminded of that cataclysmic night ten years before when he had first met Dahlia, first conspired his plot against her.

Then she was kissing him, too close to escape or push away. Every nerve in Armande's body stood on end; he struggled to collect the willpower to stop her before this went any further. Then her mouth moved down his neck.

"Dahlia, please..." The words 'stop' and 'we need to talk now' were intended to follow. But Armande found his voice snuffed out completely, dead in his throat.

She looked up at him in surprise. "Why, you've never asked so nicely," she commented with a devilish grin.

Blood rushed downward, already throbbing in the most inconvenient of places from Eliane's little antics. Armande found his mouth so dry, he doubted he could have spoken another word if he tried.

He tried anyway.

"Dahlia," he managed again, but had no words to follow it. He knew what he needed to say. The intentions were there, the impressions of all his complicated emotions and the entire situation was quite accessible in his brain. But when he tried to find the words, it was like trying to pick fall leaves out of the wind.

Meawhile, she was moving to unlace the ties at the top of his shirt, holding his gaze so intently he wondered if there was anything he would have refused her if she had asked it.

"I have something I need to say," he gritted out between uncooperative jaws.

Dahlia chuckled softly. "Indeed you do. Let's hear it, then." Her fingers still traced his skin between the laces of his shirt. Armande felt like either his heart, his brain, or something else was going to explode, but he still couldn't speak. He couldn't find a way to put into words what needed saying. Despair washed over him as he floundered.

Seeing his indecision, Dahlia had other plans. "Or, we could... postpone our discussion, a little longer," she suggested, kissing a line up his chest, over his throat, up to his jawline.

"We need to talk, Dahlia," Armande blurted out, snatching her hands from his chest and holding them, perhaps a little too roughly.

She looked up at him, serious for the first time since he had walked in to find her half-naked in his bedroom. Something cautious reared up in her eyes, and she pulled back, crossing her arms across her chest.

"About what?" she inquired calmly. Tension had snaked into her muscles in an instant.

"I leave for Paris next week," Armande began, finally finding a foothold to start on.

Immediately, Dahlia's face closed over, defensive. "Yes," she agreed slowly, prompting him to continue.

Armande summoned every wit she hadn't scattered and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly, fighting to meet her eyes. "When I am finished in Paris, I am returning to America."

She blinked, mildly surprise. "You aren't coming back here?"

"No."

For a moment, she seemed to be thinking, trying to figure out some way to manage this piece of news, or perhaps trying to come up with an argument to make him stay. Armande knew the exact moment the realization hit; stillness enveloped her suddenly as she stared into the fire. Her great hazel eyes flooded with understanding as they locked on Armande. She opened her mouth to speak, but Armande beat her to it.

"We can't do this anymore, Dahlia." Had those words come from his mouth? It seemed so unnatural. Regardless, Armande continued before she could argue or convince him otherwise.

"I never intended to stay." Armande tore his eyes from hers, unable to watch her disbelief. Instead, he watched the flames dance in the hearth, watched the firewood be consumed and destroyed. "I don't belong here. When I have done what I've been assigned, I'm going home."

That last word stabbed Dahlia. Armande could sense the pain at his back, even without looking at her. But he had to look at her; he couldn't stand there, unfeeling, ignoring her like he would any other woman. So he turned around, and faced her again.

The pain and shock of his announcement gave way to outright embarassment. As if realizing for the first time what she was wearing, Dahlia wrapped her arms about herself protectively. Incredulous, she watched his impassive face; he knew she was searching for some doubt, some flicker of uncertainty, and it took every ounce of willpower he could find to banish any such expression. Her face hardened, and something dark thundered in her eyes.

"So you intend to abandon me, as well?" she asked, her usual composure clearly cracked and breaking.

Armande swallowed. "You must have known this would happen, Dahlia-"

"Is this because I cannot go to Paris with you?" Dahlia demanded.

"No, Dahlia," Armande insisted, voice rising. "Don't be foolish! This is simply the logical-"

"Don't rationalize to me!" she yelled suddenly. Tears had sprung into her eyes; startled, Armande realized he hadn't seen her cry in ten years. "Don't you dare try to-to explain! Like it doesn't matter!"

"What did you expect to happen?" Armande shouted back. "What? That I would-would marry you? Look at me! Look at you! I'm twice your age! And half as respectable- what kind of life could we have?"

"So it comes down to age and social values," Dahlia hissed venomously. She had been as close to hysteria as Armande had seen in a decade moments ago; she drew herself under control, and now stood so close to him he could watch the angry tremor of her jaw as it clenched shut.

"What more do you need?" Armande asked, obnoxious.

"How about the truth, Armande?" Dahlia spat. "The truth, if it isn't too much to ask!"

"The truth?" he asked incredulously. "You want truth? The truth is, Dahlia, that I have no place in my life for you! Every place we have ever coincided has been one of pain, confusion, manipulation, or, we can't forget, sex."

"That's not true!" Dahlia snapped.

"It isn't?" Armande leveled a glare at her, so swept up in the fight to make it convincing that he could almost overlook the urge to apologize, beg forgiveness, promise her anything, if she would only stop the tears... "I'll give you truth. I raped you Dahlia, and then murdered your father and left without looking back. Is that true? Yes? Well, likewise is this. We have no future together. I don't want one. I leave for Paris in a week, and then for America, where I will stay for the rest of my days. Without you."

Silence crashed into the space at the end of his rant. Armande had been trying to silence Dahlia with his words and his rage; he had succeeded.

She took a step back. Then another. Then she was striding across the room, picking up her clothes, and changing back into the Dahlia she had become. Strong, independent, and alone.

The silence became awkward, and Armande turned away from her while she dressed. It took little time; regardless, it was more than enough for his anger to subside, and the hurtful words he had spoken to echo in his mind along with the sounds of Dahlia choking back tears from across the room.

Finally, she stalked across his chamber for the door. She stopped and turned back to him one last time.

"Armande." She demanded his attention, and he couldn't refuse her. Armande turned from the fire to look at her.

He hated himself then. Dahlia stood by the door, proud, resilient, even with tears tracing hot lines down her face. She was so much more than he deserved; better that she leave like this, than give any more of herself to him. She laughed, harsh and bitter, and it didn't suit her.

"My mother was right," she said in her calm, collected manner. She swallowed loudly. "I should have known better. The first time we met, you forced your way in and clawed up my life from the inside out. I don't know what I was thinking when I let you into my heart to do the same."

Dahlia spared him one more furious, tearful glare. And then she left. She didn't even slam the door. She just left.

Armande walked across to make sure the locks were in place. Then, he dropped to his knees.

Anger welled up inside him. Anger at himself. He slammed his fist against the solid floor. It flared bright with pain, but it was not as sharp, not even close, as the pain that came from remembering Dahlia's accussing eyes and her parting words.

The day he departed could not come soon enough. Armande did his utmost to avoid Dahlia for days, fully aware that if he saw her, he might give away his reluctance to leave, his desire to reconcile.

As he left his rooms for the final time, all his sparse belongings packed and slung over his shoulder, the eyes of the entire complex were on him. Armande felt as if he were on stage; every step, every expression was watched and examined by secret eyes who quickly looked away when detected. He refused to hurry. This final time he made his exit from this place, it was not going to be in shame.

The entrance hall was like a church, silent with unspoken accusation, unspoken fear. Unusual numbers had gathered today, finding some excuse to witness the last sightings of Armande de Seville before he vanished into history. The council said nothing; most of them just stood aside, with, in Richellou's case, barely-repressed triumph vibrant in his every expression. Some were still afraid and they looked away when he stared them down. Not Richellou. Armande held his eyes for longer than reasonable before turning away with a shake of his head.

The great doors that led to the sea were open, letting evening sunlight flood inside. A woman stood by the door, silhouetted and shrouded from clear sight. Armande's heart tightened.

But it was only Eliane. She didn't blink or move; and seemed to be having a hard time with her usual trick of gazing down her nose at him. "Best of luck," she murmured shortly.

"Why, thank you," Armande replied, drenched in false sincerity.

Eliane's eyes twitched upward; on the defense instantly, Armande glanced back to see what her eyes had gravitated to.

On the second-floor balcony wrapping around the entrance hall stood Dahlia.

Taken off guard, Armande forgot to glare. He just stood, looking at her. Just a little longer. Just this last time.

The pain on her face nearly made him break; no one else could have recognized it for what it was, so talented Dahlia had become at hiding behind her calmness and control. But Armande couldn't help remembering words he had said to her.

'This time, I promise you I will not hurt you. Do you believe me?'

'I do," she had answered.

He dragged himself under control. He had to stop looking at Dahlia. The sight of her would turn him around if he didn't turn away. This farce wouldn't be for nothing; to seal the act, he slapped on his best sardonic smile and turned away from her.

Armande walked out the door, into the sunlight. Onward, to Paris.

Onward, to revolution.

Lit by half a dozen candles, Dahlia's room glowed in a warm radiance. But still, she was so cold; she took another draught from the bottle of red wine she had stolen from the wine cellar, coughing back the tears.

What was going on? Why had she done this to herself? Why had she trusted him so? The wine tingled in sweet stabs down her throat, but even with half the bottle gone, and another empty bottle already rolling on the floor, the memory, the feeling, of Armande lingered. She could taste him, feel his hands on her skin, still. See his dark eyes.

She rested her head against the wall; Dahlia was sitting cross-legged on the floor, shirt untucked, boots thrown by the bed, door securely locked. The last thing she wanted was for Leandre to see her like this. As drunk as she was, she still stifled her cries of misery, tried to isolate her suffering to this room.

Not her son, not her mother, no one could see her like this. No one could see how weak she still was.

She laughed hazily, the sound twisting into a cough. What if everyone knew how wrapped around him she was? Would the rumors start again? Oh, hell, they already had. Every day, she saw their looks of disdain, heard their hushed gossiping. Was she raped, after all? If so, why keep the baby? Was Leandre even Armande's son? What a dirty, sick woman she was. What a whore.

Dahlia sucked down another mouthful. It had taken years for them to stop. Years. And here, they had begun again. And soon, they would have even more to gossip over.

A choked sob escaped her. Her head bowed forward, and she rested it in both hands, still holding the wine bottle in one.

It was too much; Dahlia crawled across the floor for her boot. There were hidden knives secreted in both; she drew one out and retreated to her spot against the wall.

Finally, Dahlia relinquished the wine bottle. It sat patiently on the floor beside her. She would have need of it again soon.

She pushed her sleeve up, revealing stripes of pale, almost-gone scars criss-crossing her wrist. The blade was sharp; she kept all her weapons sharp. It rested cool against her over-heated skin.

A hiss escaped her as Dahlia drew the knife across the skin. She watched the blood seep up in a drunken trance, hyponotized by the color, by the throbbing, stinging pulse that beat down her arm.

Suddenly, she was fifteen and a new mother, again. Dahlia's mind slipped back into the past, and she relived with horror this night, this night like so many that she had hidden in her room and wished for death. The reasons were different, but the agony was too similar. Disgusted with herself, Dahlia threw the knife away.

She picked up the wine bottle again; it hung invitingly in her hand.

Suddenly exhausted, Dahlia stumbled to her feet. Somehow, she managed to set the bottle down on the dresser without falling or knocking anything over. She was so tired...

Collapsing on the bed, the ghost of Armande beside her wrapped his arms around her waist as she drifted off to sleep. How many nights had his ghost haunted her in other ways? How many nights had been disturbed with the twisted memories of his cruelty, his overpowering strength? The scars counted them, one by one. And now there would be one more; this time, a wound from a memory that hurt her in so precise, so sharp a cut that it eclipsed the persistence of the nightmares of the Armande that had finally faded.

Tears leaked soundlessly from Dahlia's eyes, soaking into her pillow until she finally lapsed into unconsciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

It was almost a month's travel on horseback to Paris. Armande spent the entire trip sulking, snarling at strangers, riding in moody silence, glad for his isolation on the long road. Glad for the time without pestering disturbances. But also lacking distraction.

He had never, never held such contempt for himself. There was no disguising it, no hiding it behind blame for someone else; Armande de Seville despised himself at that moment, and that moment lasted an hour, a day, and an entire trip as he ploughed along. Even his horse was eager to avoid his notice; she made hardly a sound, and once she was fed in the night, she was silent.

The night's were by far the worst. Armande stretched out on the ground, packed and wrapped as tightly as possible under layers of wool against the winter ice, and tried to sleep, tried to count stars or count reasons not to think of Dahlia. The words of Eliane and Richellou replayed in his head, and he found himself staring upward for long, sleepless hours remembering the night he had taken her innocence, killed her father, set events into motion that had spun them about and set them on a path that Armande would never in a million years have suspected he would find himself.

As a young man, he had been infatuated lightly with one young woman or another, he certainly hadn't been a virgin in a very, very long time, but something about laying beside Dahlia stuck with him. The way she spoke, her quiet, collected grace. The wild passion she kept locked away like a hidden tomb to be discovered. She was a cool rain after a hot day in the sun. A balm to the restless, fiery nature that plagued him.

And he couldn't have her.

Armande closed his eyes, shutting out the starlight. He would sleep. Whatever it took, he would get some rest tonight.

One last time, the dying face of Leandre Touveilles, Dahlia's father, flashed behind his eyelids and Armande found himself looking up at the sky again. He winced, remembering the last words he had spoken to the man, remembering the agony in Eliane's voice as the love of her life was snuffed out forever. The same agony whispered softly to him now, stealing his sleep, stealing his peace of mind. Why had he taken that contract? He knew why. Because Armande hadn't cared. Why not take the money? And upon finding a fellow Assassin, why not embrace a challenge? He had never even wondered why. Such a fool; for all he knew, he had been hired by a Templar to assassinate an assassin.

Armande frowned. Now that he thought of it, he knew little of the reasons behind Leandre's death. Before realizing he was of Armande's own kind, it was assumed that his death was politically motivated. But in the golden years after Louis XVI first took the throne, there was no great unrest, no violent political schemes that permeated even the quite country estates of the nobles. As an Assassin in disguise, would Leandre not be under orders to avoid notice, regardless?

A puzzle that had long been finished, suddenly Armande looked again at the past to see yawning gaps where pieces were missing. What was the reason Leandre had been contracted? It seemed suddenly important, and Armande sat up.

What was it?

He mentally took his bearings. Paris was at least another week off; and not far from here, perhaps an extra two days travel, was the nameless settlement where he had started this all.

Entranced, Armande stood and began to gather his things. The old man who had paid him was likely dead; there would be no lead to follow, no trace to track down. But as Armande saddled up and rode off course, he felt his path steady, and his mind focus, and like a rope secured in his ribcage pulling him along he knew he was on the right trail.

Had anything at all changed?

Armande haunted the streets until sunset. It had been a day and half ride to this little town in the French countryside, which, he admitted, he was a little surprised still existed at all. And upon arriving, it was all as he remembered. His time here had been short, but it looks like he hadn't missed anything with his early leave.

The manor in which the Touveilles had been stationed still stood, now inhabited by another family. At the gates, Armande had waited for a long time, as if he might glimpse Leandre Touveilles on the lawn and discover, after all these, years, he's not dead! One less mile in the chasm that separated himself from Dahlia. Impossible, and when Armande finally turned away, it was with no intention to ever return.

His steps meandered. This place was like falling into the past, more so even than his return to the Ainsi; this village was more than the past, it was a pivot, a giant wheel on which his life had turned. He had entered this place a vagrant, and left it a beast; changes had occured in him here, in his life, in his mind, that could not be undone. And from those changes, other changes, not to himself, but to people around him. Other Assassins.

The landscape was white; snow rose and fell in drifts along the roads and against houses, swirling in the air and limiting visibility. Winter rushed and ebbed around him in the form of blasting wind, but under his coat and wool cloak, the greatest cold he felt was the one under his skin when he imagined what might have been. Armande was not given to speculation, not normally one to wish to change what was, but here in this stagnant eddy of time progress felt out of reach, leaving only reflection.

What might have been... if he had never come here?

The old house and grounds where he had accepted the fateful contract on Leandre's life still rooted into the earth out in the fields. It was a speck on the hillside, a black thumbnail thrown away amongst the billowing snow. But the hour was late, and there was one thing Armande would see to before he pursued his current course any further.

The footprints. Trails of glowing gold that burned out of the snow underfoot, lighting the way in the dark abyss of Eagle sight.

Whoever it was, they had followed him from the Brotherhood's complex. Armande had not realized he was followed on the road, but had soon sensed the presense of a pursuer once within the pulsing, living shroud of a town. Armande followed the trail absently, aware he was watched, behaving as if at random while studiously examining the trail. The strides were measured, often, and quite long elsewhere. Made by boots, smaller than Armande's own, which made them average for a man, large for a woman. Any further information was impossible to discern, with the drifting snow and gusting wind.

Armande had been making circles, following the tracks. He assumed his pursuer was behind him, and was concieving a way to lure him or her forward as he walked. Much to his surprise when he turned a corner and was blinded by a great, glowing form at the end of an alley.

Armande didn't respond. The target didn't respond.

The target didn't see him.

Ready to leap into chase, Armande neared his prey. Out of Eagle sight, it was man, though even that wasn't certain under the heavy winter cloak he wore. The man was peering out of the alley, away from Armande, demonstrating a remarkable lack of awareness as Armande walked right up to him and cleared his throat.

Rightfully alarmed, the man leapt into motion; Armande was ready. Whether he intended to fight or flee was unclear, but Armande gave him no time; he grabbed the man's collar, thrashed him violently against the wall of the alley, and held him there. The pistol in Armande's new vambrace clicked into place, aimed at the stranger's chin.

But then, it wasn't a stranger, after all.

"How did I know," Armande drawled. Despite this, a grin wore into his glare, and he pushed the hood back with the barrel of the pistol.

It was Gerard.

"You're a lucky bastard. Normally, I would have just stabbed you in the back."

Armande and Gerard sat at the tavern, the floor over which Armande had rented a room. They were passing a bottle of brandy back and forth; even inside, the cold was severe. Gerard chuckled.

"I suppose I am, at that." He took a deep swallow. "I didn't expect you to move as quickly as you did."

Armande huffed, feigning annoyance. Taking a swig of brandy, he looked over Gerard; it was a grim sight. His old friend was thin, graying, and lined. He seemed ill, as if taken with a wasting disease. Armande had pointed this out earlier. Gerard merely sighed and shrugged, and made some excuses about recent sickness, the cold, the winter, and all manner of nonsense until Armande was certain he had no intention of broaching the real issue. It didn't matter; Armande was more delighted by this turn of events that he would have expected. He had so many questions! But even to Gerard, he refused to reveal how little he knew. Instead, he approached the subject in a slow, wide circle.

"You've been much better at sneaking, these past months," he pointed out, taking the bottle. "I wasn't expecting you to slip up so badly."

Gerard shrugged in agreement, but otherwise didn't comment. Armande pressed slightly harder, drawing the circle more tightly.

"I admit to some surprise that you avoided detection by not only myself, but the entire order." It wasn't a question, but it was, leaving the air wide open for Gerard to explain, in fact, making it impossible for anyone to mistake the inquiry in the phrase. As if thinking, Gerard handed the bottle back and rolled his shoulders.

"The Brotherhood isn't what it used to be," he answered vaguely.

Armande waited, watching with a stare that clearly expected further illumination.

Gerard laughed, bizarre to Armande's buzzing curiosity.

"Just cut to the heart of things, Armande. I can practically see the question forming in that twisted brain of yours."

"You faked your death?"

"I did."

Armande scoffed. "And you risked blowing your cover to spy on me? I'm flattered."

"I can't believe you had the damn balls to come back," Gerard chuckled, disbelieving. "You're either completely confident or the stupidest bastard I've ever met."

"Don't expect me to give you an answer. I don't even know," Armande grumbled.

Gerard shrugged. "So. What brings you here, back to the country?"

In truth, Armande wasn't even certain of the answer to that question. He had unclear ideas only, but they were beginning to form a disturbing picture, and that picture was what was drawing Armande forward. For a moment, he hesitated to confess any of this to Gerard. And then, he decided, Gerard had more to lose if Armande exposed him to the Brotherhood; in terms of secrets, he and his old friend were well matched. Armande exhaled slowly, folding his hands over his stomach.

"I suspect that there is some treachery in progress," Armande replied.

Gerard raised his eyebrows and took the bottle back, throwing down another swig of brandy. "Do tell."

"There is something odd happening, in any case," Armande grumbled. "A boy is killed in the bay. The High Councillor is black mailing everyone from the damn blacksmith to his fellow members of the council. I get hired to murder Leandre Touveilles, all those years past, for no discernable reason."

"There must have been some reason," Gerard pointed out.

"Not that I can tell." Armande thought for a moment. "But I can find out."

"Hmm? How so?"

"The house is still there," Armande answered. "The noble who hired me might be dead, but his household is still there. I wager someone there knows something. The butler always has a fair hold on the comings and goings in those places." Armande's frown deepened as he thought. "And if I get the chance, I wouldn't object to discovering just how my name came up when they sat down to plan Leandre Touveilles death."

The realization settled on them both oppressively. Gerard tilted his head. "A bit late for friendly visits."

"On the morrow, then," Armande replied. "It's a place to start."

"It all sounds rather exciting," Gerard chuckled. He handed the brandy to Armande, who glared drolly and took a drink, emptying the bottle.

"Finisher buys," Gerard taunted. Armande threw the empty bottle into the fireplace.

The very next day, Armande made his way up the walk, through the gardens, now sleeping in winter, and to the front door of the man whose name he did not know and whose face he had not seen in a decade.

At least, back then, he had not known his name. In the here and now, he had gone asking, and the talk around the village was that the family who resided here went by the name Cachette, and had resided there for five generations.

The Lord Cachette was very old, and rather sick in the cold of the season, but he was the same that had resided over the house for thirty-some years.

As Armande made his way to the door, he glanced over at his companion. Gerard, for what can only be accounted as the sake of old times, had asked to accompany Armande in this mission. When Armande pointed out that he would be revealing himself further, Gerard had merely laughed and argued that no one in this little town knew him as Gerard the Assassin, anyway. He had a point.

At the door, they were met by an alarmingly young doorkeep. A chill of worry crept up Armade's spine; the whole staff couldn't be changed, could they? Surely not.

"Names, Messieurs?" the young man asked politely. "Monsieur Seville," Armande answered.

"Monsieur Gillerette," Gerard replied.

The doorkeep nodded and left them in the entry hall.

"Gillerette is a far cry from Theorelle," Armande muttered. "I'm more surprised you go by your real name," Gerard hissed back, spreading his hands in a gesture of disbelief.

There was truth in this; Armande had been sought out by name, all those years ago. If the old man was of any use at all, he would remember. All the better; Armande hated trying to broach a subject discreetly.

"Monsieur Cachette is ill, Messieurs," the doorkeep reported on his return. "He will see no one today. But the Madamoiselle Cachette will speak to you, if it is all the same. If it is a business matter, she asks that I show you in."

"Then lead the way." Armande trailed after the youth.

"What will she know?" Gerard whispered, not moving his lips, as they walked.

"We won't know until we speak to her."

They were shown into a chilly blue parlor; it was not so cold, heated by a stove in the corner, but as Armande gave his coat and cloak to the doorkeep, he had to suppress a shiver. This was the room.

Mmse. Cachette was a pleasant, if plain, faced woman of twenty or so years. Her manners and tone gave her away as one who ran the house, and one who had few visitors.

"What can I help you gentlemen with today?" she asked after pleasantries were exchanged, and the three of them had taken seats on opposite couches over the same coffee table that had been present in 1779. This woman seemed to have no idea; every time Armande blinked, he was in the past, talking in the dead of night with a frightened old noble and no notion of what he was about to walk into.

"We were actually looking for someone," Armande began. "I had hoped your father might remember him, or know where he went to. The man's name was Leandre Touveilles."

Gerard's eyes darted to Armande and back to Mmse. Cachette.

The Mmse. seemed unshaken, though surprised. "I have not heard that name in years, Monsieur," she thought it over, tracing the patterns on the wallpaper with her eyes. She looked back to Armande; some glimmer in the depths of her stare unnerved him, and he wondered at it. "I'm afraid that if you wished to speak to Viscount Touveilles, he has been dead some ten years, now."

"Dead?" Armande raised his eyebrows, swallowing down the pulse that jumped into his throat. "I'm sorry to hear that. How...?"

"No one really knows," Mmse. Cachette replied with a friendly, sad smile. "I was fourteen at the time-"

The same age as Dahlia, Armande thought, and immediately cursed himself for it.

"-so I had little to do with everything that happened." She frowned, still watching Armande's face. "They say it was murder."

The way she watched his face, the way she spoke carefully... Armande smiled calmly, ignoring the sense that she knew something in the interest of retaining his cover. "Murder? Out here? It's hard to imagine such a thing."

"One day, the Touveilles family was simply gone," Mmse. Cachette shrugged. "They must have packed up overnight, and held the funeral elsewhere."

"I'm sorry to hear our search is in vain," Armande sighed. "In that case, we must go. But, before we depart, I had hoped to ask you father about one other man we seek."

"Oh?"

"Yes," Armande tilted his head, watching her. "I had thought to ask if Monsieur Cachette had spoken to anyone... anyone not from the area, shortly before Viscount Touveilles death."

"You needn't speak to my father," Mmse Cachette replied, quiet now, cautious. "Nothing in this house happens without my knowledge. Even then."

"Is that so." The momentary slip was not unnoticed; Armande's smile didn't even twitch.

"My father had a late-night meeting with a stranger," Mmse. Cachette had grown nervous; she kept eye contact with Armande, but he wondered if she knew him. Doubtful. More likely, the topic itself was unnerving to her.

"I am aware." Armande leaned forward. "Thank you for your help, Madamoiselle. But I hesitate to impose on you any longer."

She nodded and stood to show them out. Before they had left the parlor, however, she stopped them. "There was one other meeting." Armande looked back at her; she was watching the floor, a twist of a frown over her young face, trying to remember. "It's strange- I don't... I can't recall it well. But I definitely remember that there was another."

"Did you see his face?" Gerard spoke up suddenly.

Mmse. Cachette raised a hand to her head absently. "All I recall is... a hood."

Armande's reply stopped dead in his throat.

Instead, he smiled and offered a half-bow. "Thank you, Madamoiselle. You have been quite helpful."

"More helpful than I was expecting," Armande murmured to Gerard as they walked out into the bleary winter sunlight. They made their way down the front path, winding through dead gardens that stood in sharp black against the snow. "Monsieur Cachette was told my name by another Assassin."

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Gerard warned. "We don't have a claim on all the hoods in France; it could have been anyone."

Armande stopped, frustrated. "Let's not be daft, mon veil ami."

Gerard rolled his eyes. Doing so brought out the light purplish bruises under those eyes, and Armande grimaced slightly. "I see your logic, but still, you needn't make assumptions."

The hair at the back of Armande's neck stood up, prickling uncomfortably. He rolled his head on his neck, trying to dislodge the feeling. The feeling that someone was watching him.

Armande looked up at the manor house. In a second-story window, clearly outlined against the darkness of the room within, the near-ghostly form of an old man stared down at the two Assassins. It was a face Armande knew well.

"He doesn't look so sick to me," Armande muttered.

Before Gerard could comment, Armande spun on his heel and stalked away down the drive.

That night, Armande and Gerard packed what they had and saddled their horses. They moved like ghosts down the sleeping streets, much as Armande had, a time prior, but tonight he held a different purpose in mind.

"Stay here," he whispered to Gerard, who made no comment, but did as he was asked. Armande moved on, gliding like water across the snow, up the Cachette lawn, thankful for the cover of cloud and darkness to mask his approach.

The house was no challenge to enter; upper windows were too often left unlocked, though in the dead of winter, many were sashed and shuttered. There was one tended lazily, left with only the curtains drawn, and Armande was able to slip inside undetected. No one was hiding from him, no guards were set on watch against intruders. It wasn't a difficult task to find the room of Monsieur Cachette.

Armande picked the lock; it might have been the only room in the entire house that was not left open. But open it soon was. He entered slowly, careful not to frighten the old man, not to cause him to start and cry out.

The room was dark. That was to be expected, and Armande moved to the bedside, hoping to light a candle. The Monsieur was obviously asleep.

Armande's testing fingers touched on a bedside candle and matches. In a moment, there was light, and Armande took in the scene before him, dread growing in his gut as what he saw settled in.

Monsieur Cachette wasn't sleeping; he was dead.

Thoughts poured into Armande's head all at once, cluttering; that the man was dead was clear as day, and that he had died recently and not by accident were just as apparent. The old man lay in bed, staring with glass eyes at the ceiling, hands folded over his chest. The flush of life was quickly leaving him.

Armande moved around to the far side of the bed, closer to where the Monsieur rested. Undisturbed by the gazing, blank eyes, he felt for a pulse, just to be certain. There was none, though the flesh was still warm at the old man's wrist and neck. The open eyes suggested that he had woken before death. Perhaps a stroke. Armande sighed.

Shadows at the neck of the corpse drew Armande's attention; the darkness seemed deeper, there, and he frowned, leaning closer to examine. Not shadows. Bruises. Monsieur Cachette had been strangled.

Adrenaline raced up Armande's spine, and he cast a sharp eye over every corner and patch of darkness in the room. Even his Eagle sight revealed nothing; the killer had acted minutes ago, perhaps, but was here no longer.

In any case, it was time to go.

A gasp at the door interrupted Armande's intentions. He looked up to see Madamoiselle Cachette, half-inside her father's bedroom, frozen mid-stride and staring. It would seem she had noticed the light spilling out from under her father's door and had come to see what was the matter. Well, she had seen it.

Armande leapt across the room and caught her arm a breath before the instant that she turned to flee. She started to scream, cry out, call for help, but Armande slapped a hand over her mouth, his own mind racing, inventing and discarding a hundred solutions to this new-bred problem.

A nauseating flash of shock exploded in his groin, sending out a numbing wave of disbelief that he knew too well would be followed by a cartload of pain. Madamoiselle Cachette wrenched free of his hands, which had grown momentarily unresponsive, and made again for the door.

She had, unfortunately, underestimated just how many times Armande had taken shots below the belt. And Armande, unfortunately, underestimated for one of the few times in his life the extent of his own strength.

One second, Armande was snatching her back and smothering her cries for the guard. The next, a familiar stick-snap sensation echoed through his hands, and Mmse. Cachette slumped in his arms, as dead as her father.

The sudden stillness settled Armande's stomach, still clenched in pain. He looked down at the dead girl in his arms. A bizarre high flooded spread through him, like water into sand, and he snickered, just once, suddenly giddy.

He dropped the body on the bed, amused. "It has been some time since that happened," he mused to himself. "That WAS exciting, now wasn't it?"

The maid, however, found it less amusing. Armande saw almost nothing of her; he had heard her footfalls the second before the water basin smashed to the floor, but he had only reached the hall when the woman was screaming for help, much quicker on the draw than her late Madam had been.

"Damn," Armande hissed, spinning on his heel and dashing back into the bedroom. He tore open the curtains and clawed open the window, and was out in the night before the winter cold rushed in.

The lawn was nearly black, with only a few faint lights of the village, far distant, to light the dark. That was fine; Armande ran, making a mad dash in the direction of Gerard and the horses.

A gun went off; Armande ducked in spite of himself, but kept running. The second, third, and fourth shots he ignored completely, knowing full well that they had to be shooting mostly at random, as there was no way that anyone could see him running through the night. The darkness was too thick by far.

He had just formed this thought, just claimed freedom in his mind as the vague form of the gate came into view, when sharp daggers of hot pain laced up his left side.

"Shit!" he spat, stumbling. He'd been shot! And stupid irony being what it was, the lucky bastard that got him probably had no idea.

Armande kept running, able to ignore the pulsing agony that beat and beat like ocean waves with every step. He'd been shot once; he knew that the adrenaline would keep him going for a while longer. He sprinted, or came as close to sprinting as he might, and finally reached the gate. The climb over was significantly more difficult than it had been on the way in. On the other side, in fact, Armande slipped and ended up falling in an undignified heap in the snow. But he had nearly escaped, and had only to find Gerard. His strength and resistance was beginning to waver, and a glance back revealed a black line of what must have been his blood in the snow; if he didn't find Gerard, he would be caught by morning. Already, the swinging glow of hand-held lanterns had swept out into the night after him.

"Here!"

Armande grabbed his reigns from Gerard gratefully as the two horses shuffled out of the night. Armande's mount sniffed him and smelled the blood; she whinnied in fear and tried to fight free. He held her steady, growling and grimacing as the effort redoubled the strain on his injury.

"Stay still, you damned cur..." Armande continued to mutter until he had dragged himself, stomach first, onto the horse and into the saddle. Sitting was a torment; he gritted his teeth and said nothing, intent to get as many miles between himself and the bodies in that manor house as he could before sunup.

"So," Gerard began, eyeing Armande's awkward seat and the pale scowl his face was twisted into. "Not the grand success you imagined?"

"Someone killed him," Armande snapped. "He was dead when I got there."

Even through the dark, Armande could practially hear Gerard's raised eyebrows in his tone.

"This is unexpected. What now?"

"I get my ass to Paris," Armande grumbled.

Paris, it seemed, was farther away than Armande imagined.

At a roadside inn two leagues north, he and Gerard stopped, paid the innkeeper well for the hour and for his disinterest, and struggled upstairs, Armande barely able to walk and Gerard nearly dragging his nearly twenty-stone weight the a room to be dumped on a narrow, passably comfortable bed. Not that anything was comfortable for Armande at this point.

Gerard closed the door and swept off his coat. "Where are you hit?"

Mortification kept Armande silent for too long. Gerard cackled, unable to help himself, hooting with laughter and pulling a chair close to the edge of the bed.

"Well turn over, then."

"What, are you a doctor, now?" But Armande did as he was told. Gunshot wounds were known to grow grieviously infected if ignored (not that Armande could ignore it) and if the lead was left in his body it would sicken him. They had to get it out. Better now, before the adrenaline was gone completely.

Armande shoved his trousers down, swallowing his scaly, spiky pride in return for the knowledge that he wouldn't rot and die from a gunshot to the ass. "Got any brandy left?"

"Lucky you," Gerard fished in his coat pocket, which hung off the back of the chair. "I've got something better. I thought our little adventure might call for some whiskey."

"Great." Armande took a long swallow, eyeing the dagger Gerard had pulled out and not looking forward to finding out what he intended to use it for. The alcohol burned down his throat, flamed out his sinuses, and, blessedly, began to warm his belly and numb some of the pain. Not much, but some. He took another swig, preferring to do this drunk rather than sober. "Have you done this before?"

"We were trained in medicine as boys, weren't we?" Gerard reminded him lightly, taking the flask and pouring a splash on the blade of the dagger. He handed it back to Armande, who threw back another mouthful; he had already half-emptied it, and Gerard's metal flask was not of the small variety.

"We might find a surgeon nearby," Gerard suggested, hesitating briefly. Armande exhaled, resigned.

"Time isn't on our side. Hell, the damn guards could be pursuing me as we speak."

"Wouldn't it be a sight if they broke in now." Gerard snickered quietly to himself.

Gritting his teeth, Armande took another sip of whiskey. "Just get the damn bullet out."

Gerard took his whiskey from Armande and handed him what appeared to be a section of leather reign.

"Give me back the alcohol," Armande protested.

"Put that in your mouth," Gerard held the bottle where Armande couldn't reach it. "To make sure we don't finish with this and you without a tongue or half your teeth. Besides, it'll keep you from waking up the whole damn inn- you're damn loud, and this is going to hurt."

Armande stuck the leather between his teeth.

Hurt it did; an incessant stream of curses and stifled roars were silenced by the leather, as Gerard dug out the bullet with his hands and his dagger. The alcohol might have dulled part of the pain, but there was enough of it that Armande didn't notice the difference.

It only took a minute or two; to Armande, it lasted half the night. By the time Gerard finally threw the lead pellet on the table and began to wash the blood away, Armande expected to see daylight through the darkened window.

"Stay where you are," Gerard instructed. "It needs stitches."If Armande's teeth hadn't been indented so far into the leather that they would not easily separate, he might have commented, "Of course it needs stitches. Why the hell not."

The stitching took longer than the bullet's removal had. As he worked, Gerard spoke.

"So. I take it you intend not to stay here for long."

Armande nodded, still clenching the strap between his teeth, his jaw so sore he dared not try to move it.

"Going back to the States? You might as well; you've got such an accent French doesn't even sound like your first language anymore."

Armande huffed, half scoff, half chuckle, and all muffled by the leather in his mouth. He reached up to remove it; he had to peel the hide off his teeth, and found that he had nearly bitten through it. The whiskey he had taken earlier had made his head weave ever so slightly, but he took no notice; he had been much more drunk than this.

"No," he rasped. Armande thought for a moment, debating. In the end, he lost the debate. "I'm going to stop a revolution."

He gasped in pain as Gerard pulled the thread too tight.

"Sorry." It loosened, and Gerard resumed sewing. He tied off the thread. "It's done."

Armande dragged his clothes back on, but the effort was so agonizing that he decided not to move from where he lay on his stomach.

"I had thought you might just go back to America," Gerard admitted, leaning back in his chair.

Armande offered no response. Not with Gerard, not with anyone did he feel like discussing why he hadn't laughed in Richellou's face, shot him in the head, and rode off to catch the first seafaring vessel that could take him home. Instead, he turned his head to face the wall.

The throbbing in his buttocks and leg and lower back promised to slow him down. Riding horseback was out of the question, at least temporarily. Despite what he had said to Gerard, he might have to stay in this miserable drafty inn until his wound had closed to his satisfaction.

He was exhausted; fuzzy from the whiskey, Armande's head drifted as if on water, thoughts tumbling one over the other as if having no direction or purpose. For a moment, he let everything slip away, and in that moment, he was sleeping like the dead.

It was late February by the time Armande and Gerard rode into Paris. Excitement and tension were thick on the air; the tenor of it changed from district to district. Where the rich and fortunate resided, life was like the verge of a festival. Everyone was talking, everyone was debating. Whispering, in some cirlces. As Armande suspected, the poorer regions of the city were much as La Rochelle had been. There was one thing in common. There wasn't a soul who doubted that change was in the cards, and a new hand was about to be dealt.

"I suppose I should leave you to your work," Gerard laughed.

Armande agreed, if with a certain degree of bitterness. They passed a hanging flag, the Tricolor banner of the long-dreamed revolution. With an angry jerk, Armande tore it down and left it in the street. He heard the murmurs following him and hoped someone would call him out; the pain from his healing gunshot wound left him with little patience. No one did, however. Perhaps this task was not impossible, after all.

"Where are you going?" Armande asked when Gerard turned his horse away.

"To my rooms here in the city."

Armande shook his head. "How did the Order miss you, Gerard? Have you also left signed notes in each city that you stay, indicating to which address your mail is to be forwarded?"

Gerard rode off with a smirk, and Armande didn't try to follow him.

"What's the name?"

"De Stael. No name knows politics better."

"Across the river."

"Her salon is quite... varied."

"Thank you," Armande moved on down the street.

Since arriving in Paris, he had spent more time listening than he would usually bother. The methods of an Assassin were swift and discreet; despite this, Armande had gone asking, perhaps drawing attention to himself, but in the process learning much. Such as the failed meetings of what the people called the National Assembly. King Louis continued to ignore the demands of this Assembly. A writer named Jean Paul Marat spent his days and nights stoking the fires of revolution with his pen; Armande made a note to see him, perhaps soon. Several students, including one Camille Desmoulin, were known to cause riots. And the King's treasurer had a daughter, married and in Paris. Madame Germaine de Stael.

He had information, he had names, places, events. What Armande lacked was... unknown.

Three months had elapsed since Armande and Gerard had ridden into Paris. Spring had come and was on its way out. Armande's gun wound was healed, the stitches removed, and he could move freely without pain. He had settled like a crab in a shell in apartments near the Hotel de Ville, not far at all from the Palais Royale; when choosing rooms, Armande had thought it best to stay near the king, just in case. He was comfortable, but not relaxed. Never relaxed. And never focused, either.

Here and there, Armande took action. He had quietly stopped a riot in progress with a few choice words; trying to stop a riot with violence was like trying to stop a fire with alcohol. But the rioters merely fell back, murmuring. Occaisionally, as he had the first day, he pulled down a Tricolor. It was usually replaced after a day, sometimes less. Small motions were getting him nowhere, and yet the situation was precise. He was an Assassin; killing was the first solution that came to mind. But here, any death would be seized upon by the other side, the rebels shouting injustice and swarming in numbers that the army simply could not compete with, the King's government holding over the heads of the people how violent and crude the populace has shown itself, unfit to lead or govern themselves. Richellou's meager excuses about a delicate situation suddenly seemed valid.

He was caught in a rut, rolling back and forth on the same path, trying to devise a way forward without even a way back to rely on. And so, one June night when the opportunity arose, Armande found himself a way; this Germaine de Stael was a touchstone for those in Paris with old money and new ideas. It was something, even if Armande was still uncertain what.

But that was later; Armande had yet to devise a way to have himself invited. In the meantime, he had a visit to make to a certain writer.

Jean Paul Marat was a tough one to ferret out. It seems he had, to no one's, least of all Armande's, surprise, been persecuted for his writings. While he walked, Armande read yet another of Marat's pamphlets. The writing was of the sort that drew in readers, inflammatory and radical. Upon finishing the last page, he snorted, impressed by the gall of the author, and wondered whether Marat lay dead in a gutter at that very moment.

Dead in a gutter, he was likely not, because corpses have a difficult time evading. Armande found, over the next few days, that Jean Paul Marat had no such trouble in slipping from the grasp of those he didn't wish to speak to. Instead, he spoke to them in his writing. One afternoon of searching, asking a few discreet inquiries, and wandering in the sector that Marat was reported to reside in passed. The next pamphlet to be published was one demonizing the sly ways of the Crown, sending disguised envoys to silence "the voice of the revolution". Armande threw this pamphlet away, growling. Marat was mocking him.

In the end, however, the only people in a city who know everything and everyone are the urchins. Gamin, they were called, dirty little ruffian boys who dashed about the streets, running odd errands for coin, causing mischief, and, of course, being frustratingly underfoot whilst Armande was at a dead end.

The speed at which information travelled in the mouths of these gamin was the very reason Armande hesitated to use them at all. But it seemed he had no choice; one June morning, he waved one over, and with the easy fearless exuberance of childhood, the boy bounded closer.

"What's your name?"

"What's yours?" came the snarky reply.

Armande bit down hard on the violent response that popped into his head. Instead, "Have you use for a franc?"

The boy's eyes widened. "I think I could find a use for one, if I 'ad it."

"Take me to Jean Paul Marat."

The gamin considered. He looked over Armande more closely, with the scrutinizing eye of one much older; the skinny creature was probably about the age of ten. Funny, Armande thought absently, that's the same age Leandre would be. He shook off the distraction as the boy replied.

"What you want with 'im?"

"I have a message for him."

Armande's discretion was ineffective. The boy tilted his head suspiciously.

"Would that be a steel message?"

Armande smiled slowly. The boy was smart. "What if it is?"

"That'll be two francs."

Armande pulled out his coin purse and counted out the francs. The gamin didn't blink, didn't comment. He slipped the coins out of sight into his pocket and nodded to Armande with a snappy grin.

"Let's get moving, then."

It was a rather short journey, for which Armande was greatly irrritated. On an avenue that Armande had walked up and down several times in the past days, the gamin showed him an apartment in the back, through the window of which a man could be seen bent over his desk, scribbling furiously.

Armande held out another three francs for the gamin. "For your poor memory," he said with a smile. The gamin accepted the bribe and took off, glancing over his shoulder only once. Then he was lost in the crowd.

Picking the lock on the door was a simple matter. Heavy silence and the scent of ink and paper met Armande as he shut himself in, cloaked in the dusky darkness of a badly-lit house. He moved through the entry hall, towards the room where Marat worked.

The writer had placed his desk in the most strategic of locations, to catch the most sunlight as it streamed in through one of the two windows in his living room. His back was turned to Armande, though he could have easily seen the Assassin enter out of the corner of his eye, were he not so engrossed in his work.

The man's profile was visible; he was not old, younger than Armande. Whatever he was writing, he did so with complete devotion to it. He muttered to himself in a voice so low Armande could not understand what was said, and he occasionally scratched out an entire line of what he had written to try again.

And that was how Armande stood for some time. Seeing Marat in person, Armande began to wonder if killing him would make the difference he thought it might.

Eventually, Armande retreated. Marat never noticed the staring face or ready blade in his own living room, too consumed with his ideas and words of advice to the people of Paris. If he was killed now, Armande reasoned, it would stop nothing. He would be made a martyr, and the spirit of revolution in this city would grow stronger still.

He wandered back towards the Hotel de Ville, wondering. He knew where Marat could be found now, and that was an improvement. But not enough; Armande would need to find a way to be invited to Madame de Stael's salon, to have a chance to look over what he might find there.

More than once, Armande had attempted to pry Gerard for information. Gerard, however, was almost completely useless, preferring to stay hidden and unnoticed, not asking and not telling. That, Armande thought furiously to himself, was clearly the only way the other Assassin had ever managed to go without detection.

"How do you support yourself?" Armande asked in disbelief one day. "What kind of Assassin has no idea what's going on in the city around him?"

"As I said, I try to avoid Paris," Gerard replied. Despite this, Armande noted irritably, Gerard knew every alley and road, every cafe and tollway. He was playing dumb, and it was beginning to chafe Armande's patience.

Gerard being little help, Armande was again stuck at a dead end for ways to infiltrate upper Parisan society. Until one day, he met with a bit of unexpected luck.

It had been raining most of the week, being early summer. Armande had only gone out to cure the touch of cabin fever he had begun to feel, staying indoors for too many days; he was restless enough out in the open, and if he was contained in the rooms he rented for another hour, he might have jumped out the window. His clothes were soon soaked, but it was warm and for once the streets of Paris were mostly deserted. He could brood in peace.

And that was when fortune struck.

Up ahead in the street, a ruckus went up and the loud whinny of a horse cut through the easy back-of-the-mind sound of falling rain. From where Armande stood, he saw a carriage, thoroughly stuck in a rut that had been full of water, and therefore the driver had underestimated its depth. Perhaps the carriage might have been coerced out of the hole, but even as Armande watched, the driver thoughtlessly tried to force the vehicle forward, and the wheel slipped off the axle entirely.

Armande apprached the carriage; the driver was not a young man, nor particularly fit. Unless his passengers were, they would be quite stranded, as the street was otherwise deserted. And in any case, Armande had nothing else to do.

Sure enough, the passenger of the carriage, as he struggled out of the lopsided vehicle, was a man older still than his driver and small, in the way aristocrats and scholars are. Armande was betting on the first, and called out to him.

"Might I offer a hand?" Armande didn't wait for a reply. The driver had climbed down, and appraised him shrewdly; Armande knew he must look like a half-crazed, half-soaked rat, but these men had little choice, as Armande was also clearly strong as a bull and the carriage would need lifting.

"Thank you, my boy," the aristocrat nodded with a tight smile.

There was no reason to waste time starting a conversation. The carriage, thankfully, was rather small and Armande was able to lift it into place, splashing a gratuitous amount of mud on his legs up to the waist, while the driver struggled to secure the wheel as tightly as possible back into place. It was the work of a few minutes, when done by men who knew what they were doing. And while the driver seemed to know, his age and girth made the placing of the wheel difficult, and as a result Armande was left holding the carriage for longer than he had the good humor to endure patiently.

"You're quite strong," the aristocrat pointed out, surprised, watching Armande toil under the carriage's weight."So I've been told," Armande replied snappishly.

"Do you have a name?"

"Armande. Armande de Seville."

"Well met. I am Jacques Necker."At this, Armande looked up, forgetting the cumbersome weight of the carriage. "Monsieur Necker? The former Controller-General?"

"Current, as of late," Necker muttered, resigned. "I am reinstated."

"Is that so." The carriage wheel was finally attached to the satisfaction of the driver. Armande stretched his back and rubbed his hands against the drenched legs of his trousers, which only removed a part of the mud they had accumulated from the underside of the carriage. He exhaled, annoyed. Time to go home to his bath.

Before that, he turned back to Necker. "Perhaps the King will see reason this time around." Necker was rather popular amongst the people; Armande had heard his name often. The Controller of Finances, on and off as King Louis saw fit, was perpetually submitting budgets and monetary changes that would curb the out-of-control spending of the court, easing the tax burden of the people, and eventually digging the country out of debt. This, however, involved a reduction in the luxuries of the First and Second Estate and the Crown itself, and King Louis was only willing to listen to such suggestions when he was desperate. The situation in Paris, it seemed, had grown desperate.

Necker seemed pleased by Armande's comment. "I do hope so, my boy."

The 'my boy' honorific amused Armande, though it made sense. Necker was much older than Armande was, and apart from looking like a dirty ragamuffin in wet clothes, Armande's face was that of a man younger than his years.

As he helped Necker back into his carriage, they began to talk. So animated the Controller-General had become, he invited Armande accept a lift home, and their conversation continued. They spoke of politics and money, mostly. When the carriage stopped near the Hotel de Ville, Necker shook Armande's hand, despite the mud.

"You must meet my daughter," he insisted. "I know she would much appreciate a mind like yours in her salon." He seemed so thrilled by the idea, Armande was almost reluctant to turn him down. Before he got a chance, however, Necker continued. "She lives-she and her husband live- across the river. Monsieur and Madame de Stael."

So great was his shock, Armande almost forgot to accept. But upon further reflection, he remembered that Necker had a daughter who was married to the Swedish ambassador at the French court. He had never learned her name, and now he felt ridiculously awash in dumb luck as he climbed the stairs to his rooms, dripping with rainwater and having nothing to show for it but the exact invitation he had needed.

When Armande was welcomed into the salon of Madame Germaine de Stael, it was not quite as he expected.

The basic premise of the salon, in Paris, was a social gathering of friends and acquaintences, meeting to chat, discuss, gossip, and lounge. Typically, and as in the case here, the ladies would be in the process of having their hair or nails or face hovered over and redressed by stylists and servants. The men were usually not included in this, and the conversations would go on as normal. Relaxed in nature, they interested Armande, as odd things had a tendency to do, because after the austere formality of America for so long, the frippish frivolity of French high society was something like entering a parallel dimension.

In Madame de Stael's salon, though the hair-fixing and strange oblivion to the oddity of the women in the room being halfway through the process of being dressed were the same, the converstion was heated. Politics.

Everyone was talking about it; every conversation echoed with words like 'National Assembly', 'Girondin', 'Tricolor', and even openly declaring 'revolution'. Armande had stumbled into a pit of firebrands, feeding off each other to grom ever more convinced of their convictions.

Madame de Stael herself welcomed Armande into her parlor. She was unremarkable, not particularly pretty not well-dressed, for the wife of an ambassador. The most notable thing about her, as it soon became obvious, was her rapt and liberated mind.

"My father told me about your meeting!" This was how the conversation started. But, as with everything else here, it soon turned to the one subject on everyone's mind. And this woman, in particular, spoke with the insistence of a senator and the persuasion of a lawyer.

De Stael herself was an avid chatterbox. Unlike the other women in the room, she sat with a group of only men, debating back and forth over the motives of the National Assembly one minute, and confessing woe over the actions of the army the next. She constantly toyed with this bit of a plant stem for the entire conversation; incessantly, she turned it over, picked at it, and spun it absently while her hands rested in her lap. It seemed to be an unconscious habit, but it was incredibly distracting, and Armande struggled not to tear it out of her hands and throw it across the room.

It didn't take long to check Mmde. de Stael off Armande list of targets. Killing her would do nothing. The people in this room talked and discussed, but were not terribly dangerous. They were aristocrats and judicials, high-born folk that were less likely to threaten order than they were to invite a commoner to lunch. Armande made a good show of nobility; if he hadn't, who knows if he would have been well-recieved at all?

If they ever took action in these convictions, however... well, Armande mused, that would be a different story.

It was almost time for Armande to excuse himself and go home, when a new player walked in the door.

"Robespierre," de Stael greeted, though not quite as warmly as she had recieved Armande.

Armande stayed where he was, sitting in the group gathered around de Stael. But his eyes were on Maximillien Robespierre. He was a small man, completely unimposing. Armande had seen women in the streets who were probably stronger. But he was sharp. His conversation carried, his voice being of the tenor that sliced through other noise without a care. The topic was no surprise, but Robespierre was, if possible, as radical as Marat.

Armande put off leaving another hour, then another. He settled with the sudden patience of a cat on the prowl; where before his temper was short and his interest fleeting, when he had scented blood he could lay in wait forever.

When Robespierre rose to leave, so, too, did Armande.

"You must return some time," de Stael told him as he left. Her eyes roved over him so briefly, Armande thought he might have imagined it, but gave her a smile and a nod and agreed. He left with a smirk, wondering if Mmde. de Stael found politics as interesting with her extra-marital lovers as she did with her guests. Probably.

Robespierre was not difficult to follow. He was a little ways ahead. That was fine; Armande tailed him without concern, knowing the he would, in time, catch up.

This street was busy, so Armande followed Robespierre through the Faubourg Saint-Germain, the district in which Mmde de Stael lived, towards the Champ de Mars. He had no idea where Robespierre was actually going. Armande only knew that he would never get there.

Nearly the time that the avenue was deserted enough that Armande would have chanced luring Robespierre into an alley, it seemed that someone else had the very same idea.

"Monsieur Robespierre!"

Robespierre looked around for the source of the call, giving Armande the time he needed to close the distance. He could feel the weight of his vambrace under his coat sleeve and measured, in his head, the force and direction he would use, already anticipating the shock rocking up his arm from impact.

Meanwhile, Robespierre wandered off the road, into the space between two buildings to his right. Less than a second later, Armande heard shouts; less than three seconds later, he rounded the corner.

Robespierre was caught between two larger men; one had his arms pinned behidn his back, and the other, with obvious intentions, had pulled out a knife.

Offended, Armande stilled his feet for a moment and melded into the shadows. There was no need to get his hands bloody, literally; these two could do the work for him. He would just wait, make sure they were successful, and be gone into the night with his aim completed. In his mind, Robespierre had been marked out as a leader, a potential rallying point for the rebellion to come. Without a center, the strongest storm can only break itself apart; without Robespierre, this revolution had lost a leg. Unlike Marat, he was worth the time to kill.

"He's a lively one," one thug commented with a chuckle.

The one with the knife shrugged. "Not for long." They were so disinterested, it was hard to imagine that either of them was committing murder for personal reasons. Common thugs out to do a man's job, hired by someone without a clear idea of what an Assassin was, to do exactly what Armande had come for.

"Kill me if you like!" Robespierre dared, voice only wavering slightly. "My life means nothing if I can't give it for my country!"

"Now, don't be so eager to die," the one with the knife teased, waving the blade close to Robespierre's chest. "We weren't going to kill you right off."

"Do your worst," Robespierre spat.

"You sure you want us to?"

"LONG LIVE FREEDOM!" Robespierre bellowed, struggling futilely to break free.

"Shut him up, before he draws the cops," the thug holding Robespierre hissed.

"Fine, fine." The blade arm drew back.

Armande moved.

The knife-wielding mercenary coughed once as his windpipe filled with blood. It was a wet cough, and blood sprayed forward onto Robespierre, who was staring, finally silent. Armande yanked his hidden blade out of the first man's neck, and turned on the second; there was no time for the thug to run before Armande shoved Robespierre aside and drove a blade up into his next target's lungs.

Both men lay dead, and Robespierre stood, staring. Armande had his back turned to him; Robespierre, he was certain, hadn't seen his face. Without a word, Armande strode off further into the alley, into the night, leaving behind the would-be victim and taking with him a troubling mantle of doubt.


	7. Chapter 7

"You seem quite distracted."

Armande looked up at Gerard. Tiredly, his eyes dropped back to the chess board between them. "I am distracted."

"Good news for me," Gerard joked. "It means I have this round won, for certain."

"Hmph," Armande grumbled, taking Gerard's rook and finally surrendering the board.

Armande was, indeed, distracted. He weighed the possibility of telling his friend of the previous night's failure. Armande had never failed an assassination before, or at least, not since he reached the status he now enjoyed. And to not only fail, but prevent the death of his assigned target... there was no telling what this meant, but Armande didn't like being so uncertain.

In the meantime, Gerard made his move, and Armande was left staring at the board, contemplating his retaliation. He had never been a great fan of chess. The game required a good deal of planning and thought, and though in practice Armande could manipulate people and events to his whim with fair luck, when the players were pieces of cold ivory, he had a hard time holding a scheme together. Eventually, he moved his knight, trying to prise Gerard's king out of its realm of safety.

"Going straight for the kill," Gerard muttered. "So like you."

"It's not like me at all." Armande hadn't meant the words to come out with a snap, but regardless, they were harsher than he had thought. He tried again. "I can plan a strategy perfectly well. Chess just isn't my forte."

Gerard nodded, not bothering to pursue the subject.

Though his eyes stayed hovering over the chess game, Armande's mind wandered. What was Gerard doing here, in Paris? Was it pure coincidence that he was here, now, at this time of revolution and uprising? Which force did he work for, that pushing the oncoming storm forward, or that which stood in its way? And all the while, this strange... illness. Perhaps all that Gerard said was true. Maybe he did only seek a peaceful retirement, away from the assassins, where he could live the rest of his life without their meddling and messes. Perhaps he felt his life dwindling, and wished to keep what remained for himself, and not die a slave to the fools that called the orders and pulled the puppet strings at the Ainsi.

Armande caught himself watching Gerard's face, pale, but still lively, still intent on the game. There was something missing, something Armande felt with frustrating clarity was right under his nose. Something... missing.

"Your turn."

Armande focused on the board. Every time he seemed near to unspinning whatever strange tangle he had been drawn into of late, something new cropped up. Gerard, alive. The fiasco with the Cachettes. Robespierre, without need for further explanation. Dahlia...

Armande moved a piece, not caring which, and dropped it in the first space that presented itself.

"I don't know what the hell they expect me to do," Armande grumbled.

"Maybe they expect you to fail," Gerard shrugged.

Armande burst out laughing. Harsh and bitter as it was, the ironic possibility of Gerard's offhand suggestion hit him hard. What better way to eliminate the unwanted, unliked outcast than to send him on a fool's errand and have him fail, or better yet, die trying. It was a scheme that was too chancey for Richellou's taste, but for someone with more balls Armande might have suspected it. He told Gerard as much, and they shared a muted chuckle over the thought of Richellou doing anything that might require any form of daring.

After a few minutes of quiet chessplay, Armande spoke. "The National Assembly, as they are now calling themselves, have had another debacle with the King and Second Estate."

"Hmm?"

"They call it their Tennis Court Oath," Armande scoffed. "As I understand it, Louis insulted them somehow, told them that their meeting hall was closed for preparation. As can be expected, they didn't believe him and holed themselves up in the royal tennis court."

Gerard snickered. Armande had to admit, if not for the complication it offered to his goals, the situation would have been fit for a comedy.

The two of them sat outside; it was a sweltering summer day, already humid in June, and the Faubourg Saint-Germain was dull with the sluggish inactivity of midday. Their game of chess took place under the shade awning of a cafe open to the street, and from there, Armande had a clear view of a carriage rolling by. An American flag draped from the side.

"Ah," he murmured, recognizing the man within. "Our honorable ambassador from the States. Mr. Thomas Jefferson."

"Mr.?" Gerard inquired lightly.

"Monsieur," Armande corrected himself. "It seems the diplomats are convening."

"More likely that... Mr... Jefferson is going to join a riot himself," Gerard muttered.

Armande watched the carriage disappear down the avenue. The American ambassador Jefferson was notorious in Paris for being an avid supporter of revolution, having helped seed it in his own country. Briefly, Armande considered finding him for a private meeting. A private meeting with a less-than-favorable end, for Monsieur Jefferson.

He discarded the idea soon after.

"Your move," Gerard said.

"What did you do?" Armande scanned the board.

Gerard replied with a helpless expression and a shrug. "I can't tell you; if you weren't watching that's your problem."

Armande scowled. "You don't have enough of an advantage?"

"Why, Armande," Gerard chuckled. "You know there's no such thing."

Dahlia existed in a fog; it was thick and hung low over her life, and never could she remember being so lost.

Months had gone by, one after the other, as night follows dusk, and there was no word from Armande. And she so, so wanted something, some news, some rumor, anything. Her despair deepened upon realizing that what she needed more than anything, more, even, than the impossible reversing of the past that she had often wished for, was to see Armande again, hear his snake-whisper voice down the hall or find him waiting in her rooms. Without him, the world was black again. Her world was a night without end, without even stars for comfort.

Worse, still, worst of all, was that everyone knew. And it was no secret what they thought of her.

She had never been more of a ghost. It was as if she wore a cloak of snow in the deepest winter; she may as well not have been there at all. She felt rather than heard the words, there is no Dahlia, only a part of the wall walking past. There is no Dahlia, only the wind bringing the sound of footsteps to the stairs. And without the strength to fight it, Dahlia began to oblige, fading away a little more every day. She went days without talking; if she left her rooms, it was usually to spend some time in the Library, browsing through books, unaware that at least one tome every afternoon was one she had read before, one of the ones she had looked through with Armande.

Dahlia hadn't always been so proud, but after the years she had spent raising and protecting her child and herself, alone, there was no possibility of giving up even a shred of the dignity she had won by letting tears fall where others might see. So, if it ever happened that she sensed the approach of a crying spell, she was quick to pack up what she was doing and retreat to her apartments.

Walking with quickened pace and blurry eyes one such afternoon, Dahlia, by chance, ran into Leverett.

They slammed together with enough force that Dahlia stumbled backward. Shocked enough to forget her momentary distress, she met Leverett's eyes, knew he saw the tears welling in hers, and moved to make for sanctuary all the faster. Leverett, however, caught her arm.

"Dahlia!" he exclaimed, trying to catch her attention. "What's wrong?"

What was wrong? What wasn't wrong? Was there anything Armande had left intact, untouched, unmoved in her life as he tramped unceremoniously out of it? Her only relief was that she had not let him meet Leandre; apart from this, she felt like she was a hall of picture frames, each of which had been set off center or knocked entirely off the wall. Fix one, perhaps, but where to begin repairing all of it? It was too much.

"I'm fine," she replied, repressing a glare.

"You don't look fine," Leverett insisted.

"Despite how I may look, fine, I am. Now, if you'll excuse me."

Leverett didn't tighten his grip on her arm, but he did move further into her path. Dahlia allowed herself a glare. His actions now were out of concern; he had always been concerned for her, always hovering near when he was in France. She had suspected he fancied her for some years, but neither of them had ever pursued it.

Instead of considering this, Dahlia found herself entranced with the sensation of his hand on her arm. There was a gentleness, a security in Leverett's touch that Armande had never had. And when Leverett released her, it was with respect and, perhaps, wariness.

She hated it, Dahlia realized.

For ten years, she had been tip-toed and whispered around, like an angry horse that might pin its ears back or a snake that might spit venom. At best, perhaps they merely expected her to laugh hysterically and break down in a fit of post-traumatic dementia. For a decade she had raised and shielded her son, using herself as a barrier to block out the stupidity of the people around them, and for that, she was treated as fragile in the most pitiful of ways: mentally. And for every damn fool that really thought her mad, there was a sniggering idiot who just liked to joke and jest at her expense.

Leverett was aware of none of this. "It's Armande."For all that he meant well, Dahlia could barely restrain a droll stare at Leverett. "If it isn't or if it is, you needn't worry yourself."

"I do worry," Leverett insisted, reaching for her hand again. Dahlia didn't know why she let him take it, but she didn't resist. "I'm not trying to badger you. Dammit, Dahlia, I'm trying to help."

Guilt seeped in, then. For all that he was no Armande, Leverett had always tried to be a friend to her. How this ordeal with Leandre's father had affected her so deeply, she wished she didn't have to know, but it was times like this that she knew, at the level where her brain and heart coincided, that the entire situation was changing her for the worse.

"Look, I'm just tired. I haven't been well lately." It wasn't a lie. Leverett nodded.

"You should get some rest then," he pointed out, unnecessary, but well-meaning.

Dahlia nodded. "If you'll excuse me," she said again.

"One other thing," Leverett stopped her before she could make her escape. Dahlia let him stop her, putting forth an effort to be civil. It took almost more time than Dahlia was willing to waste for Leverett to continue. "I know... that Armande meant a lot to you."

Dahlia just stared at him. Leverett seemed to intuit that he tread on thin ice, and proceeded with so much care, he became clumsy. "I thought you should know that you don't have to be with him. He isn't the only option."

Leverett leaned forward then, slow enough that Dahlia could have pulled away. But she let him kiss her, tenderly, as a lover would be expected to do. It didn't take long for Leverett to notice her lack of enthusiam, her total, mechanic lack of response. He backed off with a sigh.

"Sorry," he offered, disappointed. "I don't-"

His sentence cut off with a pained cry as Dahlia's hand slipped from his and snapped his right wrist backwards. It popped a revolting 'crack' into the otherwise silent hall around them, and Leverett doubled over his hand, grinding his teeth together in agony.

"'Sorry', that," Dahlia snapped. She stalked away, leaving Leverett to find his own way to the doctor.

"'He's not the only option'!" Dahlia mimicked, furious, as she strode like a wildfire through the Ainsi.

Dahlia shut her door securely and collapsed into an armchair by the window. Leandre was out; he was always looking for someone to play with this time of day, and the silent apartments bespoke Dahlia's solitude. Not that she bothered looking; the tears she had fled the Library to hide revealed themselves now, hot and bitter and, for the most part, broken.

"Dahlia?"

"Dammit, Mother," Dahlia shot suddenly, trying to turn away from Eliane's voice, knowing that it was too late to hide her crying. "I wish you would make some sound or something."

"Even if I had, I doubt you would have heard me, loud as you were blasting in here," Eliane replied coolly. "What's happened?"

"Nothing," Dahlia snapped instantly. After a moment, she admitted. "Leverett kissed me."

This was quite a shock to Eliane. "He did? What did you do?"

"I broke his wrist."

This was less of a shock. Eliane moved to take the chair opposite Dahlia. She leaned her elbows on her knees, studying her daughter closely.

"Leave me be," Dahlia ordered, angry at being caught.

Instead, Eliane reached forward, leaving her seat, and wrapped Dahlia in a hug. The armchairs were big, and both Dahlia and Eliane were small women, so Eliane sat beside her daughter and held her, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Finally Dahlia stopped protesting, and just cried, soothed by the soft stroking of her hair that Eliane had fallen into out of habit.

"I'm so sorry, Dolly," Eliane whispered, resting her face against the top of her daughter's head. "This... is my doing."

Dahlia sat up, wary. "What is?"

Eliane rested her hands in her lap and watched her fingers lace and interlace between each other. "Please... please try to understand, I thought it was best.""Thought what was best, Mother?"

Eliane looked up and met Dahlia's eyes.

"Armande, before he left, told you he wanted nothing more to do with you, didn't he?"

Coldness began to spread, starting in Dahlia's stomach and growing like a sickness. "He did... how did you know that?"

"Because I told him to."

Dahlia scoffed, not wanting to believe. "You expect me to believe that he just up and left because you told him to? He'd be more likely to laugh in your face."

"Richellou threatened to cast out Leandre, and you, for that matter," Eliane continued. "Armande was going to refuse the Paris assignment completely, and probably just go home. But Richellou threatened you, and he did as he was told and left."

Dahlia said nothing, could not say anything. Eliane stumbled onward.

"After the council meeting, I caught up to him and told him to leave you be. I told him that he would destroy your life long with his own if he stayed, and that unless he broke it off with you, you would... do something stupid." Eliane watched Dahlia, waiting. Her daughter was still, tears frozen in her eyes, as if she had fallen asleep with them open. After what seemed an hour, she blinked.

"He left... for me?" she asked, rigid with disbelief.

Eliane's eyes dropped to her hands again. It was all the answer Dahlia needed. She stood.

"I have to go to him."

"Dahlia, no," Eliane begged, not meaning it to come out so desperately. She checked herself and tried again. "You aren't well! You can't travel- can't you just write him? or wait until you are better?"

"When he's finished in Paris, he leaves for America," Dahlia cried, coming back to life as she hadn't been in months. "If I don't catch him first, I never will."

Eliane stood as well, alarmed now that Dahlia had begun to pace. "What makes you think he still wants you at all? It's been six months- he might well have forgotten you."

The pacing stopped. Dahlia stood, uncertainty a dark cloud over her face for a moment, only to clear a moment later. "He hasn't forgotten," she answered, almost to herself. A small smile twitched at the corners of her lips, an expression so long gone that Eliane almost didn't recognize it. "I know he hasn't." She looked up at Eliane. "Mother... I need you to do something."

Eliane understood instantly. "Are you sure...?" she asked, incredulous, despairing, and overcome by loathesome happiness all at once. "Are you sure you trust me?"

Dahlia walked over to stand before her mother and rested a hand on her shoulder. "It's been a long time since I trusted you as I trust you now. Keep a sharp eye out; I'll be back as soon as I can."

That evening, Armande took advantage of Madame de Stael's invitation to return to her salon. She was delighted, always happy to have another inquiring mind at her gathering. With a proper acceptance and advance notice he would arrive, Armande resumed his facade, hoping and yet hoping not that he would see Robespierre that night.

His mixed wishes were both affirmed and let down; without an apparent care for the fact that he had nearly been murdered the night before, Robespierre was easily discernable among the nobles present.

Keeping his distance, engaging in a mindless chat with a pair of charming noblewomen in the process of having their hair groomed, Armande studied Maximillian Robespierre. He was remarkable in his energy; whatever he said, he said it with conviction, with feeling. A good trait of any leader, well-intentioned or otherwise. Younger than Armande, but not by much. His words carried clearly through the low rumble of conversation: a good public speaker, perhaps. It was growing less and less doubtful that this man would become a player in the revolution Armande sought to prevent.

Robespierre happened to turn at the wrong moment; his eyes and Armande's eyes met across the salon.

It was remarkable that Robespierre recognized Armande; not only had the night before been dark and hazy, but Robespierre had been understandably distracted. That he had been unable to free himself unaided last night, but was perfectly capable of idenitfying Armande among the faces in the crowd, was an abject annoyance.

Worse, Robespierre clearly had no head for discretion. He hastily excused himself from the discussion he was caught in, and began making his way over to where Armande lounged.

Tired of handling utter morons, Armande attempted to ignore Robespierre completely. This was a misguided attempt; the man sat down uninvited at Armande's side and went off.

"Monseiur, you'll excuse my impertinence," he began cordially, "I merely wished to give you proper thanks for my rescue the other night. I've been hoping I might run into you to offer my gratitude, how lucky to meet you here!"

Lucky for you, Armande thought to himself, grinding his teeth. All the sly craftiness in all Assassindom wouldn't save him, here; if he killed Robespierre now, as he was beginning to wish he could, his cover would be blown like a misfiring cannon.

"I'm afraid, Monseiur, that I don't know what you mean," Armande protested courteously, hiding his malice with a friendly smile.

Robespierre was not to be diverted. "Don't be modest, my good man, I remember your face like I saw it yesterday! We met in this very salon!"

The two women and the other man Armande had been conversing with were growing interested, and Robespierre drew attention from any crowd, resulting in half the parlor bending an ear in their direction. With a tight-lipped smile, Armande stood.

"Perhaps you would join me in the corridor?" he offered Robespierre.

Once out of earshot in the cool of the hallway, Armande moved closer to Robespierre. Not close enough to be considered backing him against the wall, but near enough that the closeness of Armande's glaring face and the proximity of the paneling at his back gave Robespierre pause.

"If you could be a touch less LOUD, Monsieur," he hissed. "I should have left well enough alone; we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Ah! I knew it!" Robespierre exclaimed in a hushed voice of triumph. "Don't fear my tongue, sir, I can keep quiet. No one will know what you are."

Armande's heart leapt into his throat. "And what might that be?"

"An Assassin."

Speechless, motionless, and, in all honesty, shocked stupid, Armande spent too many seconds staring like a dolt at Robespierre, trying to determine if he had heard correctly.

"Where did you hear that term?"

"There are whispers," Robespierre answered vaguely.

"From who?" Armande growled, threatening, for the first time dropping the noble mask and revealing the wolf beneath.

"Everywhere," Robespierre replied, perhaps grasping his situation. His voice had dropped, finally, to a real whisper. "Among the salons of Paris, not just Mdme. de Stael's. There is talk of a clan, or a guild, or some nation of people who move with the shadow, to work for the light."

Armande almost killed him right then and there. "And you are aware that this is a secret protected by the deaths of hundreds of thousands before yourself?"

Robespierre swallowed dryly. "What will you do? Kill everyone in Paris? Everyone in France? Your people are a legend that parents tell their children in the night, there is no one that is unaware of your existence. All I want is your help."

"Hmm," Armande replied noncommitally.

"You have heard Necker resigned?"

"Mdme. de Stael's father?" Armande frowned. "I had not."

"King Louis has enraged the National Assembly for the last time, Monsieur," Robespierre whispered feverishly. "His attempts to keep the peace would have been welcome two months ago; now, they are an insult. He laughs at our demands, and his nobles laugh with him. Camille Desmoulin knows; he has a bigger mouth than I do, I think we can both guess what may happen in the next day or two."

Armande knew well what might happen, and struggled to quell the anxiety that churned in his stomach at the thought. "So what? Live your fantasies, have your revolution. What do you need me for?"

"It is not me, but the people that need you," Robespierre insisted. "The pillars of this government are falling, but as things go, they may fall on the people, next. They need... help from the shadows."

Armande backed away from Robespierre. "You have no idea, do you?" he asked, incredulous. "You ask these things of me, with no impression of what the consequences may be."

"Damn the consequences!" Robespierre snapped suddenly. "I'll bear them myself, so long as this revolution begins!"

"Be careful, what responsibilities you take upon yourself, Monsieur Robespierre," Armande warned, retreating back into the salon.

Armande left Mdme. de Stael's parlor with as much courtesy as he could summon. Still, he knew it was quite apparent that he was vexed; even the self-involved de Stael could see it. When he offered his solemn apologies for his early departure, she paused in the heated discussion she was entrenched in, her ever-moving, fidgeting fingers halting about the piece of ribbon they toyed with this night. She dismissed him without avarice, but he doubted his charming facade had gone unblemished.

That ceased to matter the moment he escaped into the cool air of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Claustrophobia evaporated, and he began the walk to his rooms near City Hall.

His calm vanished like paper in flame when he heard Robespierre's voice following him into the night.

"This revolution will happen with or without you, Monsieur Assassin!"

Armande spun around, aware of the other pedestrians out in the street, and caught Robespierre by the throat, fingers digging into the linen of his cravat until he felt the pulse through the fabric.

"Shut. Your. Yammering. Trap." Armande had had it up to his ears with Maximillian Robespierre. Half-lifting him off the ground with one arm, Armande dragged him into the nearest alley, away from curious eyes, and held him against the cold brick wall. Robespierre struggled to breathe. Armande struggled not the throttle him.

"You listen here," Armande thundered in a whisper. "The beat in your heart, so help me, is my doing. Your life is twice mine, and I gave it back to you both encounters. You say it is my duty as a free man to help you and your crusade? Damn your crusade. If a time comes when I hold your life in my hands a third time, I will be throwing your sorry corpse into the Seine myself, may every saint on the chapel of Notre Dame stand witness."

Armande released Robespierre by way of throwing his across the alley into the opposite wall.

Still, Robespierre had not learned his lesson. He rasped, "You stand aside now- what tomorrow? The next day? What are you here for if not to make history?"

Armande was a hairsbreadth from doing exactly what he had came to Paris to accomplish. He could feel the weight of his hidden blade and vambrace under his coat sleeve, whispering murderous temptation to him in silent tones that he knew well.

Without another word, Armande turned and left the alley. He turned down another partway down the avenue, and scaled the rough stone wall until he stood on the rooftops of Paris. Let Robespierre follow him up here.

Armande stood looking out over the city for a moment. The summer moon was bright, the sky clear, and smoke drifted lazily from chimneys among pointed, black shadows of houses in the night. To the north, across the Seine, the great square towers of Notre Dame mirrored the looming Palais de Justice. As he watched, he heard the feather-light ring of the smaller bells of the cathedral, joined soon after by the resonant toll of the larger ones, until all of Paris rung with the sound of it.

Armande began to run. He leapt over chasms, ran across wires strung between buildings, and, scaled walls, feeling freedom in a way that had been unknown to him these past several months. The National Assembly, Necker, Louis XVI, even Robespierre was forgotten as he flew across the skyline with the abandon of a child.

When he reached the Seine, he stopped short. There was one name and face that would never leave him, and like this great river below him, she was unavoidable.

There was a cart loaded with crisp summer leaves parked at the street level, below him. He leapt out into thin air, tumbled forward slowly, and landed square in the center of the cart, unnoticed.

Before him, the river Seine stood in the way of the cathedral. There was a bridge, but it was a toll bridge; Armande had the money, but didn't feel like paying. Instead, he hopped across the long-obsolete scaffold supports that stood from a time out of living memory, climbed part of the stonework of the bridge itself, and found himself on the opposite bank, staring up at the great towers of Notre Dame, standing sentinel against the ruthless hand of change that hovered over Paris like the palm of a giant.

Before he knew it, Armande was in the great courtyard, dwarfed, for one of the few times in his life, by this ancient structure. Its enormity was not lost on him, the greatness of the world's oldest ways towering over the new, struggling shoots of hope. Was he that hope? For this country's sake, he hoped not.

Armande began to climb. The face of Notre Dame had been worn smooth by centuries of rain and ice pelting against the ever-aging stone, but the ledges were plenty and the ascent easy, if long. First, he passed and scaled the forms and faces of saints and priests, the Virgin Mary and her holy son, stained glass stories of prayer and joy. These dwindled as he climbed, turning into cold stone angles and lines, carved and sculpted until the cathedral roof became the bell towers' floor. And then the towers themselves, twin sisters full of song, chiming gently in the soft summer wind, kept timeless company by the knarled gargoyles and silent stars.

Armande climbed one of the two towers, not caring which, until he reached the roof of the world, and the city below was a smudge of ink laced with avenue veins and dotted with gold star lanterns that mirrored the silver ones overhead.

The ledge called to him, and he crouched at it, staring out over the city, feeling himself a gargoyle. He thought he was alone; much to his surprise when a voice called to him.

"I don't usually see people up here. But then, you always were unusual."

"Gerard." Armande turned to see his friend lounging within a shadow. He smirked. "If you want to be alone, there's another tower I might haunt, this night."

Gerard laughed, but it was checked, held down and weighted, as if his mind, too, was heavy. Armande knew the feeling.

"No, no." Gerard sat up. "I was just leaving, to be honest. It grows cold."

The night was balmy, even at the top of the bell tower. "What really ails you, Gerard?" Armande asked. "This sickness... you say it is circumstancial. I don't believe you."

Resting his elbows on his knees, Gerard looked Armande over, eyes thick with age and worry. He sighed. "It's only time, Armande. Just... time. Too much time."

"You're a year younger than I am," Armande protested with a weak smile.

Gerard returned the smile, with equal weakness. "You always did age well."

Armande chuckled, and looked back out over the city.

"And you?" Gerard asked, not standing. "Did you come here to take in the view?"

"No." Armande crouched down again, habit. "The noise... I couldn't think. A man needs time to think."

"A man like you," Gerard said slowly, "might find it pertinent to avoid thinking. The more you think, after all, the more you remember."

Armande continued to stare out at Paris. "I'm not afraid of the past, Gerard."

"And the future?"

No response. Time passed, great movements of an unseen clock that counted down the minutes that Armande sat at the edge of something terrifying and Gerard sat back and watched him, without comment.

Finally, Armande broke the stillness. "I should have killed Camille Desmoulin. And Thomas Jefferson, perhaps. And even Robespierre, that ponce. The writer Marat stirs trouble. There are so many that I could have pulled into the shadows, but I didn't."

"And now you wonder why.""If someone could explain to me why I do the things I do...!" Armande exclaimed suddenly. His hands tightened on the ledge. "I see a face in the mirror and its mine, but there's a face behind it, a face I never saw before because it has always moved in perfect unison with the first, and that second face is the Assassin they call outcast. But now...! Now they move in opposite directions, the one knowing what it must, and the other knowing what it wants! I follow one and the other complains, and I still don't know why I chose the one I did to pursue."

He fell into silence.

Then, "But which face is the one I have always seen? Which one is Armande? Am I a man with the heart of an Assassin, or an Assassin with the heart of a man?"

Standing abruptly, the wind rose with him and buffeted Armande's coat out over the lights far below. He held his ground, wanting little more than to go with the wind, only wishing he knew clearly which way that led him.

"You'll never make it," Gerard warned. "It's a lot farther down than you think."

Armande didn't reply. Only his excellent vision allowed him to see a pale dot far below that might have been a heap of hay.

"Armande..."

His legs moved with barely a thought from Armande. He leapt into the night; it was a long fall. As the earth rushed up to meet him, Armande forgot to wonder if he was about to die. He forgot to wonder what was happening to him, what was happening to the world around him, or even where he was. All that mattered was the black, whipping wind that streamed through his hair, past his face, catching for a moment at a time in his clothes before blasting away. He could have been flying.

Then, he saw the hay approach, and the motions became mechanic. The practiced, careful state of letting every muscles go limp, the measured front flip, the seconds of watching the sky flee as he fell, back first.

And then the impact. Armande lay for a full minute without moving, uncertain if he was really dead.

And then he groaned, sore where his tailbone had ground into the stone beneath the hay, though thankfully the straw had cushioned the landing succesfully. He moved each limb, one by one. Nothing broken, nothing missing.

When he slipped from the hay, there was no one around. A pang of juvenile disappointment hit him; no one had seen that?

Well, one person had. He looked up; it was too far to tell, and it might have been his imagination, but there seemed to be a pale face peering over the edge of the top of the tower, gazing down in horror-turned-surprise at Armande's unharmed exit from the haystack.

He waved, doubting Gerard could see. And then he began to head to his rooms, where Armande sincerely hoped he would find at least a good night's sleep.

When he encounted the bridge on the opposite side of the cathedral, Armande coughed up the sou for the toll guard. He felt slightly less inclined to any further acrobatics, that night.

From the other side of the river, it was a rather short walk to the apartments that Armande had rented for his stay in the city. He remained on the street during this section, having filled his need to breathe open air and seeing more sense in approaching his rooms from the ground level.

Once inside, he called for a bath to be heated. And once again, he longed for home, as the little French matron bustled strode off with barely a word, reminding him of Beth's silly chatter, and his home across the sea. How he wished for it, now. How he wished he had not come back, to fall into this mess of revolutionaries and ghosts.

Some time later, when he had bathed and redressed, Armande sat at the desk in his bedroom and thumbed through Le Contrat Sociale once again. Unbidden, Robespierre's accusations echoed back at him. The words still rung in Armande's head, and the weary tension was still tight in his shoulders, when there was a knock at the door.

It was almost certainly Robespierre. That fool had followed him home. Armande growled to himself, ready to flatten that firebrand to the floor with one blow of weathered, scarred knuckles.

Armande flung the door open. It wasn't who he expected; the world tilted slightly, and for a moment he thought he might have lost his senses. In Robespierre's place at his door was Dahlia.

Dahlia. She was thinner, paler, as if she had been sick recently. But it was her.

"Are you going to invite me in?" she asked shortly.

Something was the matter, he could hear it in her tone. Not that he had to wonder at what. Armande stepped aside and gestured for her to enter, not certain he knew what was going on. It had been over six months since he had left, and she showed up now? Now? With revolution so near? With the danger so thick in the streets you could choke on it?

"What are you doing here?" No sense in dallying around the point.

She stood across the room from him, calm, as always. So collected. It was a blessing and a curse, saving Armande from having to endure typical female outbursts of hysteria, but likewise critically crippling his ability to gauge her thoughts or mood. At present it was a hindrance.

Dahlia spoke, finally. "Eliane told me what she said to you."

Armande exhaled, inexplicably irate at this piece of news. What was the point of saying what she had said to him, what was the point of so inflicting him with the guilt and the responsibility and the conscience, if all Eliane was going to do was scurry off and confess it to Dahlia? Moreover, now Dahlia knew. Armande's shoulders grew tenser, if possible. Dahlia was smart, and her presence here was proof enough. She knew why he had done what he did. That he had done it for her. That he cared, despite everything.

He tried to respond, but had nothing to say. Nerves wound up his throat, and all he could do was watch and wait in despair, waiting for Dahlia's next words.

Her composure wilted, and her hazel eyes softened. "Thank you. I don't think anyone has ever gone so far to protect me."

Real gratitude. Relief and confusion warred through Armande's chest for control over his brain, and confusion won out. "You will never do anything I expect, will you?" he asked, incredulous. To his mild annoyance, not to mention relief, Dahlia smiled.

"Not on purpose, I assure you." Her smile faded, and she began to tug at the leather straps securing her vambrace to her arm. Her hand shook; Armande moved closer, concerned. She truly didn't look well; purple bruises were smeared under her eyes from illness or lack of sleep, and her usual porcelain skin had become almost gray. Dahlia had removed one vambrace and started on the second by this time.

"There's something I need to show you, so you'll understand," she began as the second vambrace came loose. "Mother told you the truth as she knew it. She was trying to help, in her own way, please don't be angry with her." That was a tall order, but Armande thought he would do anything for Dahlia if she would just sit down, and start making sense again.

As her second vambrace was removed and she set it on the desk with the first, Dahlia looked up to meet Armande's eyes. Anxiety traced fine lines down her face, between her eyebrows where they were furrowed together. And also vulnerability. Armande was growing less and less comfortable with the direction this conversation was going.

"Mother is part of that world, part of their little society," Dahlia continued. Her eyes were bright with that anxious uncertainty, but she plowed on forward. "I never was. What I'm about to show you, I've never shown anyone. It doesn't matter whose fault it is, but I just wanted you to see why I... why I need you with me."

Dahlia pushed up her shirt sleeves to her elbows shakily. After a moment's hesitation, she thrust her now-skinny arms out at Armande, revealing the inside of her wrists and forearms to the candlelight.

Armande took each of her arms in one of his hands, examining. The first thing he saw was a fresh pink scar, stark against her white skin, obviously self-inflicted. He glanced up at her, but said nothing. Then, taking in the whole picture, Armane's grip on her wrists tightened in shock.

Like intertwined branches in a forest canopy, almost-invisible scars lacerated the flesh of her forearms. They were very old; at a glance, one might not notice them, so faded they had become. Old scars. Perhaps ten years old.

Unable to speak, Armande's eyes travelled back to hers. Dahlia held his gaze, but with what was obviously her last shred of self-control, like trying to balance on a fence that was too narrow. So close to falling over the edge...

"Dahlia-"

"I don't want you to apologize," she cut him off quickly. "I don't- I just wanted you to know. These are all the product of your presence in my life." She took a deep breath. "The old ones are from a man named Armande that I knew only briefly, and I didn't much care for him. He didn't much care for me, either, I assume. He dragged me from a life I loved, and threw me into one that I hated." She drew her wrists away and slipped her hands into his. "The new one... is because of a man that I thought might have been able to take me back out of it that life. He's the same, yet so different..." her voice choked off. She cleared her throat. "I didn't come here to have you throw me out, again. I came here to tell you that without you, I barely exist. And if that's wrong..." Dahlia let a tiny smirk show. "Well, maybe I'm a little bit sick too."

Armande interrupted her by drawing her into his arms, crushing her into an embrace that was full of the insistent, unending need for her that had planted itself in him and begun to grow. Now, he would never clear it away, so enveloping it had become, and he embraced it along with the woman in his arms.

"I thought I was helping you," he whispered. He hadn't meant to whisper, but his voice had grown hoarse with the whirling storm of emotions that Dahlia had stirred up.

She hung in his arms numbly. "You did," she pointed out, swallowing back tears.

Armande found no reply, so said nothing, just holding this fragile, iron-strong woman he could no longer do without and no longer wanted to.

"Sleep sounds nice," Dahlia murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

Without a word, Armande swung her around and led her to the bed; she collapsed on it instantly, barely pausing to take off her boots before falling over sideways on the pillow. Armande inched in beside her, hugging her close.

"A bit small for two," he muttered irritably. "If I had known I would have a guest, I would have sprung for a bigger bed."

Dahlia laughed weakly. "I'm glad, then, that you didn't."

"Dahlia, what's wrong?" Armande asked finally. "You're sick- don't try to tell me you aren't. You look like you haven't eaten in days, or slept in weeks."

She leaned closer to him, cuddling her back flush against his chest and abdomen. "It's over now, I'm better. I'll be myself again, I just need time to heal."

"Will you tell me what happened?"

"Yes," she replied. She twisted about to face him. "But not now. I- I don't want to talk about it now."

He nodded. She smiled, then, finally, and it eased some part of Armande's heart that had twisted in worry for her. She kissed him, softly, at first, and then more insistently.

He drew back. "I thought you were tired?" he asked playfully.

She raised an eyebrow. "I never knew you to be one to complain."

"Never," he agreed.

"It's funny."

Dahlia, stretched out beside him in the bed, chuckled. "Excuse me?"

She was teasing, he knew, so Armande merely kissed her forehead and continued. "As a young man, my very first target was burned into my memory. You never forget the first, as I'm sure you know."

Dahlia nodded, listening somberly.

He leaned back on the pillow, still watching her. "It's forbidden, but I attended the funeral."

"That's a little bit sick," Dahlia commented, smirking.

Armande pursed his lips in joking disapproval. "In any case, I wanted to see. It's the reason we aren't allowed to attend our victims' funerals, what you see there. You get to see their family and friends, people who would have argued the necessity of their death, if they had had the chance. We don't give them that chance. But I wanted to see what was so bad about going to see them, buried. I killed him, after all, why not?

"I'll never forget his wife and children, crying," Armande sighed. He swallowed, and closed his eyes. "I can see them still, even now. People have been calling me evil for most of my life, and I felt it that day."

Dahlia stayed still, letting him speak.

"But the strange coincidence is the flower they chose to dress his coffin in. It was piled with dahlias. White ones."

She stiffened. Armande looked down at her face, to see her both uncertain and surprised, and a little concerned. He continued quickly.

"I never noticed the connection before. Flowers aren't exaclty my strong suite, but while living here in Paris, I've had time to remember some useless knowledge. The man who comissioned my target's death was his friend; he turned him in to the assassins for some minor Templar corruption. I was sent immediately. So I killed a man that really didn't need to die. For him, dahlias were a symbol of betrayal and treachery."

"And so, for me," Dahlia whispered.

"Yes," Armande agreed softly. "But you, Dahlia, are so much more. For you, they mean the best; resilience, wild independence, change. I know. I asked the woman in the market who was selling them."

Dahlia smacked his arm lightly, laughing, relieved to break the serious tone their conversation had taken. He wrapped her in a bear hug, delighted again to feel her smooth skin pressed against his weathered body.

"The resilience, at least, was learned the hard way," Dahlia commented lightly, kissing a line down Armande's neck. He chuckled low in his throat, enjoying where this discussion was leading them.

"You ARE a fast learner," he teased.

"Ten years is hardly learning fast." She said it casually, but it confused him for a moment. He stilled, working what she had said over in his mind, trying to fit it into what he already knew. It wouldn't fit.

Feeling him go still, Dahlia looked up at his face.

"Ten years?" Armande asked, smiling uncertianly. "Raising Leandre... I know little of raising children, but Eliane helped, did she not?"

Something- realization- flickered across Dahlia's face. It was gone a moment later, and she leaned in to kiss him again.

He pulled back, out of her reach. The look on her face had not been missed. "What?"

Dahlia tilted her head confused. "What about what?"

"Don't try that with me," Armande warned; he sat up, frowning. "What do I not know?" he pressed, leaning forward when she continued to play dumb. When she knew she was caught, the confusion disappeared in an instant.

"I assumed with everything else Mother said to you, she would mention this," she replied, annoyed. Dahlia looked up at Armande and shook her head. She sat back slowly, pulling the scratchy sheets around her naked torso as she did so. "I suppose you will not accept anything less than a confession, now."

"Nothing less." Dahlia glared at him momentarily. Then her expression softened in defeat, and dropped to stare at the blankets.

"Armande, after what happened, Mother and I went to stay in the Ainsi," she began. It took her a moment to find a place to continue. "I was pregnant, still, not even two months along by the time we arrived. My body hadn't even begun to quicken with your child- but I knew I was pregnant. Mother knew, the Council knew. I told you that they tried to convince me to destroy Leandre. I resisted." She paused, closing her eyes. Dahlia's arms tightened around her chest, and she stared at the sheets again, not meeting Armande's gaze. "They tried to force me."

Armande felt his blood heat furiously as she stumbled on. "They hounded me, for almost my entire pregnancy. Even Eliane. My own mother. Early on, they tried to slip herbs in my food to make me miscarry. I stopped eating, I was so paranoid, and when even this didn't stop the child growing in me, more... extreme measures were taken.

"It was subtle at first. Someone would accidentally bump into me, or I'd trip over something left in the hall. But the Council hated you so much. Eliane hated you so much. When they finally crossed the line into openly attacking me, I stopped going out at all. It was only after Madeleine talked to her that she came back to my side-"

"She should never have left it!" Armande shouted suddenly. He leapt to his feet, too tense with rage to stay in bed. He paced the small room, incredulous. Dahlia sat up straighter, and refused to back away from his anger.

"Armande!" she demanded, and he finally tore his eyes from the floor he was pacing. "Armande, it was ten years ago. If I can let it go, so can you!"

"You shouldn't have to," he snarled. "For hatred of me, to torment a teenager, a teenager who had already gone through everything you did, for the purpose of murdering an innocent child!"

"You are not one to talk!" she replied incredulously.

"She's your own mother!" he shouted. "And them, the men and women responsible for our order! What hands we are left in, when our leaders will direct all their attention to killing the unborn son of a man they dislike!"

"Let it go, Armande!" Dahlia insisted.

"I can, but I won't!" Armande snapped, already sorry for shouting at her. She was unfazed and continued to stare him down resolutely. He competed with her for several minutes, waited for her to look away, but she would always win in a game of patience. With a growl, he sat back on the bed, fuming.

After some time, he felt her hands running in soft lines up and down his back. He tried to cling to his anger, but it was difficult. She was so soothing, so calming. So vulnerable. She had been so vulnerable. First, he had taken advantage of that innocence, and then the people she should have trusted most...

The rage welled up again. Armande spun around, taking Dahlia by surprise, and kissed her, passionately, almost roughly. He hadn't dared treat her so roughly, ever, for fear that she may see in him again the man who he was so happy to be rid of. But at present, he cared more about freeing this poisonous anger in a way she might approve of, and perhaps taking the pain and terrified memories from her. At least for a little while. For as long as he could.

But all through the night, and even when the candle was cold and they lay together, peaceful, in bed, Armande simmered. Dahlia slept, close by his side, but he couldn't forget what she had said. He could imagine it all, filling in the gaps that she had left and knowing with sharper and sharper clarity that the ones responsible would pay.


	8. Chapter 8

Dahlia woke slowly, aware of eyes upon her. She knew who it was already; with a drowsy smile she looked up at a man she never expected to trust so deeply.

Armande was watching her, thinking. His head was propped up on his arm as he lay on his side; he didn't react as she met his eyes, silent in the morning hush.

Her eyes traveled over him, taking in the rough skin, the scars, his Indian tattoo, his age and strength and the lines of his face. She knew he was old compared to her, but it was a distant knowledge. Insignificant, a detail as menial as the time of day or the weather. The years he had spent on this earth paled in comparison when she thought of how he had spent that time, what he had seen, done. It was not all good; most of it wasn't. But he was so much more a man than any she knew, willing to be what he was and not apologize. He never expected excuses from her because he did not offer them himself. He didn't judge her because he knew what it was to recieve judgement. He lied where it suited him, and spoke truth where it was warranted. Not a saint, not perfect.

She realized then that she couldn't live without him. Couldn't, wouldn't, didn't want to.

"Good morning," he said finally, cracked a slight smile that didn't reach his still-distant eyes. Dahlia's smile widened and she stroked a line down his chest affectionately.

"Morning."

Armande didn't reply. Whatever was on his mind, it weighed heavily, clear in the marble stillness of his face and far-off, faintly absent glaze over his brown eyes. Dahlia's smile dimmed, and she rested her head on her outstretched arm. The narrow bed was uncomfortable, lumpy and too thin to soften the wooden planks beneath it, but she had slept in worse and somehow sharing the space with Armande made her uninterested in leaving. And there she waited; if Armande had wanted to keep his thoughts to himself, he would have put them away the moment he noticed her waken and only brought them out again when she was not watching. Whatever it was, he would speak it, eventually.

Eventually came sooner than Dahlia was expecting. "You asked me once what could have changed me so."

"Oui," Dahlia agreed. She sat up on her elbows.

Armande dropped his eyes, studying the creases in the mattress for a few moments. "I don't think you would believe the truth."

At this Dahlia frowned, growing fascinated. "Why not?"

His gaze moved, roving from the sheets to the skin on her wrists, exposed. Dahlia felt a prickle of unease, still not accustomed to allowing someone to see, after all these years hiding. Armande looked back up to meet her eyes.

"You have never shown anyone else those scars?"

"Not even Madeleine."

Nodding, Armande looked away and back again, thinking. "I have never told someone what I tell you now. Believe me if you like.

"Before I begin, I think I need to elaborate on something. When I asked you if you knew the reason why I raped you ten years ago, I should have asked, 'do you know why I wanted to get you with child?' Pas, not even that will do. It should have been, 'do you know why I want a child?' Can you imagine a reason?"

Dahlia shook her head. Armande smirked.

"Not even a desire to be a father?"

"The man who raped me would never have wanted the responsibility," Dahlia replied simply, leveling a flat stare at him that managed to tread the thin line between nonchalance and accusation. "In fact, you said you would return for our son; I assume this to mean that you wanted a child, but not until he was old enough to care for himself."

"You are, of course, correct." Armande paused, as if phrasing his next words. "Do you know why I left the Ainsi? The answers to these questions are one and the same."

"You were forced out."

"Not precisely." Armande's face twisted slightly, and he yanked it back under control. "I hated them." Rolling onto his back (which took up more than his fair share of space in the bed, being a man of his size), Armande stared up at the ceiling. "I despised," the word was dripping in wrath, and Dahlia didn't doubt the truth of it, "them. Every day, I watched our ways fade, and our kind grow weaker. We ceased to be the predators in this world, and instead became just another place for the Templar curse to spread to. We were turning into victims, resorting to negotiations and politics to achieve our goals."

He looked over at Dahlia, meeting her eyes again as he continued. "I was never a perfect fit for their world. I... my parents... it was widely rumored that I was not my father's son."

Dahlia's eyes widened, but she didn't dare to speak. In some part of her, she felt like she was being ushered into sacred ground, a place where few were permitted. Shock alone would have stayed her tongue, but Armande wasn't finished.

"I wanted to shut them up." A cold grin snaked over his face, sending a chill down Dahlia's spine. A ghost of the old Armande showed through, then, and she was glad when it passed. "Becoming the best seemed the only way. But, life being what it is, I ceased to care, somewhere along the way... Somewhere, I started to love the kill. I didn't do it because I had to, I did it because I got a thrill from it that I couldn't get elsewhere. It was... " he hesitated, and he returned to watching the ceiling. "It was sexual. Toxic, erotic, mind-blowing. The first time I raped a woman..."

"There were others?" Dahlia interrupted suddenly, not thinking.

Armande looked at her sharply; Dahlia wished she hadn't spoken, seeing the defensiveness, the sudden fear of her opinion that darkened his face. She shook her head. "Nevermind. Go on?"

Armande rolled his face back towards the roof and closed his eyes. "Yes. There were others. But believe me when I say you were the worst. At least the others... I don't know. You were so young... Normally, I wouldn't even have enjoyed it- nevermind, forget I even said that... damn..."

A grimace formed, and he stopped his narration. It took several minutes before he opened his eyes and went on, but Dahlia waited, too curious to do anything else.

"I wanted a child, one with strong assassin blood, because I wanted to start over," he spat out suddenly. Before she could question, he rolled onto his elbow, facing her, and sped on as if worried that if he didn't speak quickly, he might stop. "I wanted to begin a new branch of Assassins, and together with my son or daughter, destroy the Brotherhood, light the Ainsi ablaze and begin again."

It took a great deal of effort for Dahlia to keep her jaw from dropping open.

"At one point, I intended to keep you around, as well," he added with a smirk. "For breeding stock."

Thankful for the comic relief, Dahlia glared in mock disapproval and huffed. But what he had said stuck in her mind; he had intended to destroy them? Destroy them like they hadn't existed, and start over. Once upon a time, that would have sounded not only foolish, but horrifying to her. Now, however...

"I couldn't do it alone, and I knew it," Armande explained, losing momentum. "I needed help, but I trusted no one."

"So what changed?" Dahlia asked softly, almost afraid to know.

"I've always known the Brotherhood kept secrets. It seemed natural that there were things I didn't know. But snooping about as a boy, I began to suspect that some of those secrets held potential, and as an adult, when I first decided on a path to breaking them down, I remembered what I had suspected as a youth. But I knew I would never find what I was looking for in the Library. I would never find it in the Ainsi; such information would be too well hidden, too well guarded. But, it was also well preserved. They say not to keep all your eggs in one basket." Armande smirked. "The Assassins didn't."

"The papers," Dahia breathed. "The papers that were in my bedpost."

"Yes," Armande agreed. "They were directories, records, but my main interest was the map. It was a map of the Brotherhood's greatest secrets. Objects called Pieces of Eden."

"What are they?"

"I only recently learned myself," Armande admitted. "This is something that some of the Council doesn't even know. Only the oldest, most trusted, and in Richellou's case, the one with the most dirt on other Assassins, can ever be trusted with. These are weapons in the fight against the Templars, weapons so dangerous that keeping them from our enemy is more important that using them against it."

Someone downstairs scraped a chair against the floor, and Dahlia's head snapped towards the sound. She consciously tried to calm herself; she had grown edgy and nervous as Armande spoke.

He went on when he had her attention again. "In Claudia Auditore's diary, she describes them as-"

"Artifacts of the gods," Dahlia finished. "That was what she spoke of? What the Apple was?"

"Yes," Armande nodded. "There are others, and the map I took from your room was a map of their locations."

Dahlia stared at him. "You thought to use something so dangerous?"

"I didn't know what it was," Armande frowned at her, lightly irritated. "Even if I did, of course I thought to use it. It would have been the perfect thing to erase the Brotherhood with."

Once Dahlia passed through the initial surprise, this made perfect sense. She shrugged in acceptance, cuing him to go on with his tale.

"In any case, the closest, most likely target was across the sea, in America."

"So that's why you went," she muttered thoughtfully.

"I had to cross a great deal of wilderness. I've never spent so much time alone, in the woods, the mountains, trying to survive off what I could find. To be honest, I was terrified."

Dahlia laughed. "You? Terrified? I can't imagine."

A slow grin, this time alive with the Armande that Dahlia had come to be fond of, grew over his face. "Difficult to believe, but true. More frustrating still when I reached the end of my journey, and I found the vault of an artifact that at the time I had no understanding of the nature of. And it was empty."

"It was gone? Are you certain?"

Armande strugged for a moment to describe the vault. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, anything Dahlia had ever seen. He was trying to communicate the instinctive sense he had felt then that what he had come to steal, had been stolen already. Finally, she stopped him.

"Perhaps you can show me one day," she suggested with a playful grin.

"Perhaps," he agreed, not certain he wouldn't.

"Is this what has changed you? I can see why you would doubt my belief."

"No." Armande swallowed, and unconsciously traced the wolf's paw tattoo over his heart. "What happened next, that is what, I believe, has made the difference.

"I tried to find civilization again, and couldn't. I was frantic; I had been in the wild for months, and had completely lost my bearings. I had no idea how to get back, and was faced with the reality of spending the rest of my life meandering like an animal in the wild. And the rest of my life would not be long; winter was coming, and I was not ready. I've been something of a city creature all my life. I didn't know how to survive extreme conditions, and wasn't interested in learning the hard way."

Dahlia was becoming transfixed. She hadn't moved in over a minute straight, and Armande had to look closely to ensure she was breathing. He took a deep breath of his own and went on."Well, winter came. I've never been so cold in my life; I wasn't sure what would kill me first, the hunger, or the nights. I'm amazed I made it out with all my extremities intact.

"One day, I felt death near." Worried, Armande slipped his fingers through Dahlia's. She blinked, and closed her own around his hand.

"I knew I was going to die soon," Armande continued. "My body was weak, and my vision was fading. I had stopped shaking; in fact, I couldn't feel the cold anymore. So I just sat there, in the snow, and waited.

"But while I waited, a wolf happened by. Just one; it was alone, but I was so far gone, I didn't care. I didn't even care that it was at least three times the size of any wolf I had ever seen.

"It beckoned me to follow. Not with words," he added quickly, forestalling Dahlia's inevitable questions, "but I knew what it wanted. It looked in my eyes, and set its paw on my chest, and I knew. So I got up, and went after it. I don't know if my body went," Armande grimaced, knowing how mad it sounded. "But some part of me followed."

"Where did it lead you?"

"Everywhere. I can't remember what I saw, but there was balance. And I knew it wasn't my time, not yet. It was like a dream. I wasn't dead; obviously, I woke up. When I did, I was in excruciating pain, so I knew I was still alive. I realize now that I was feeling my limbs thawing out. I was in the house of the chief of a tribe of Natives, the Ye Iswa. The River People, they called themselves.

"Many of them spoke English, and at the time, I spoke enough, so we could communicate. The village chief had been visited by his ancestors, they said, and had been told to go fetch me." Armande snorted, but it lacked his usual bite. "And so I survived. I told you already that I lived with them for a time; the European settlers traded with them regularly, and contact was frequent. When we travelled near the newly-made United States, I took my leave. For all that I owed them my life, I wanted to go back. So I did." His hand hovered over the tattoo. "When I noticed it, I demanded to know why they had marked me so." He paused, wondering again, as he had so many times since that day. "The Chief said the wolf god had left his mark on me."

"You were changed by a spirit wolf?" Dahlia asked. Armande looked over at her, and could see the skepticism on her face. He shrugged.

"Believe me if you want. But spirit journey aside, I was never the same. For the first time, I... I knew what it meant to see people as humans." He trailed off, thinking again, watching the ceiling. "When I went back to civilization, everything was different. I felt a kinship, for the first time, with the other members of my species. It was so odd; I was forever intrigued by this bizarre... I guess it was respect, for others. Respect for the part we play in this world."

Silence lapsed in suddenly. Armande's hand tightened around hers, and she caught a subtle, guileless smile on his lips.

"Armande..." Dahlia started to speak, but felt her nerve falter. Now, more han ever, she felt how sharply his absence would weigh on her. These last six months without him had been hell, but it was only now that they were together that she fully understood why. She had missed him terribly, irrationally, him being the only one in far too long who she felt human and real in the company of. Life had become a faded, blurry window to Dahlia, difficult to see through or discern. He was like opening the window to look straight out at the rain. A breath of fresh air, even if it wasn't always pleasant.

"Yes?" he prompted slowly, smirking as if speaking to a slow child.

"Armande," she began again, "while you were gone, I-"

A shout outside drew their attention, and the clamor of dozens of voices drifted through the window. Neither had noticed the growing racket until now; both of them got out of bed and looked out. A river of people surged by in the street below. They were everywhere; as far as the eye could see in both directions, the road was packed with movement.

Armande turned to Dahlia suddenly.

"This may be what I've been waiting for." He turned suddenly and snatched up his clothes, dragged them on as quickly as possible. Dahlia watched him dress, feeling suddenly weak and unwilling to admit it. She started to reach for her own belongings; his hand caught hers.

"No," Armande directed. "You're not well. Whatever happens today, I don't want you dying because you weren't strong enough."

She snatched her hand away stubbornly, though she knew the wisdom in his words. "I can take care of myself."

"That means nothing if you choose not to," Armande shot back.

She hated it, but Armande knew her too well; she was weak, from months of sickness and depression. The rushed journey to Paris had not helped. If she could just warm up, get her body in motion, however, Dahlia was certain she would be fine.

"Stay here," Armande took her other hand in his, looking her straight in the eyes. Something in his gaze unsettled her, and she knew she would end up agreeing.

"Give me a good reason."

"I told you, you're too weak," Armande answered. Dahlia just looked at him, not needing to speak her thoughts. He sighed. "There is also something I neglected to tell you."

She didn't look surprised. "What would that be?"

"I have no intention of stopping this revolution," Armande announced without preamble. "In fact, I go today to make sure it begins."

Again, she did not seem surprised.

"We'd better get moving, then," she moved again to collect her things.

"You have to stay here," Armande said again, holding her in place.

Dahlia exhaled sharply and levelled an unimpressed stare at him. "Why?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I have a feeling, something's wrong."

She squeezed his hands. "If something is wrong, then with you is where I need to be."

The weight of her words settled on him,. One of those strange, catalyst moments occured, and Armande found himself giving voice to thoughts he had meant to keep hushed. "I missed you."

Dahlia nodded. "I missed you too."

"Dahlia..." Armande sighed, debating on the wisdom of what he was about to ask. "I'm going back to America soon."

Dahlia's heart sank; it was visible in her eyes. "As you said."

The rabble outside swelled and subsided again, unnoticed. "When I leave," Armande pressed on, "I... want you to come with me."

Armande had no time to feel the anxiety of the uncertain; Dahlia's darkened face lit up, and she smiled shyly. "Are you sure?"

"More sure than I've ever been."

Dahlia smiled wider, and Armande realized that he could count on one hand the times he had seen such an expression on her face.

"Of course I will," she agreed. "I can't think of any other place I would rather be."

Sudden lightheadedness swept over Armande; he must not have been breathing, he thought to himself. This momentary dizziness washed away and left him nearly glowing. He caught Dahlia by the waist and lifted her off the ground in a tight hug.

When he set her down, Dahlia reached for her clothes. Before Armande could protest, she was dressing.

"I'll be damned if I sit here all day and wonder if you're still alive," Dahlia muttered as she laced up her boots.

Armande thought about resistance. He deeply wanted her to stay. It had been a very, very long time since he had worked with a partner in a mission, and never had he worked with one whose safety was as important to him. If something happened to her...

"I don't want you out there," Armande stated flatly.

Dahlia looked up from her vambrace, which she was securing to her arm. "And I don't want you out there."

They stared across the room at each other.

"I mean it, Dahlia," Armande insisted.

"I am not a child, Armande, even compared to you," she smirked, but her tone was serious. "I can handle myself. I will not wait at home like a housewife and worry about you until you return. There will be no more discussion of this."

Armande opened his mouth to do just that, but closed it at her glare. He drew on the rest of his clothes and armor, simmering. Only when they were on their way out did he speak; Armande braced his arm against the door as she tried to open it, and gazed down at her intently.

"Take no risks," he growled. "I don't care if you're a child, a woman, an Assassin, or a damn walrus. If the danger is too great, walk away from it."Dahlia gazed back, undaunted. So stubborn... yet if she were a fiber less unyielding, if she bent to his whim just a touch more easily, Armande doubted he would need her as he did.

"I will take what risks I need to," she replied. Before he could argue, she held up a hand. "But, if you will agree to do the same, I believe it would be fair that I do all I can to stay safe."

It wasn't close enough to Armande's demands, but he doubted he would wrest any further concessions out of her without a fight. Then, dampening his irritation, she leaned up and kissed him on the cheek slyly.

He raised an eyebrow. "Hmmph," he huffed, pleased. "Fine then." He removed his arm, and gestured with a bow for Dahlia to open the door. "If you insist."

"I do."

"Then let's be on our way. We have a revolution to make."

The Bastille loomed on the horizon. The great tide of Parisans had carried them this far; as they neared their destination, Armande and Dahlia slipped out of the boisterous, endless crowd.

"Why the Bastille?" Dahlia shouted over the deafening roar of the mob. Exhaustion tugged at the corners of her eyes; the mob had been in motion for over a day. "There are few prisoners here, and little cruelty- why not the Palais de Justice?"

Armande shrugged. "The mob thinks slowly," he commented. If they thought quickly, he added to himself, it would not have taken almost two days to choose a destination. He worried about Dahlia; whatever her weakness stemmed from, it was not improving at this pace.

"They'll never get inside," Dahlia muttered, looking up at the great walls of the Bastille.

Armande agreed; the walls were at least fifty feet high, and made of smooth-laid brick that did not invite the climber to test his skills.

"If we move quickly, we might have a chance to slip inside," Armande directed, rushing towards the back of the Bastille, before the crowds circled it completely.

At the base of the fortress ran the barracks and stables, in a much lower wooden building that leaned against the side of the Bastille. Armande and Dahlia climbed this in an instant.

"There," she led the way to a series of narrow windows and rock outcroppings, negligible but just enough to climb. If it had been raining, the tiny ledges would not have worked at all; as it was, the two of them were able to hike up the face of the fortress by the skin of their teeth.

At the top of the wall, every gendarme was focused on the crowd; none noticed Armande nor Dahlia until it was too late. Cannons and gunfire silenced their passage, and the two Assassins went unnoticed, free to look down at the innards of the Bastille from above.

In typical keep fashion, the outer was was reflected within with an inner wall, where the prison was housed.

"The plan?" Dahlia murmured. "It seems that we have only to open the gates, and the mob outside will do the rest. The soldiers are... uninspired, as far as I can see."

She was right; Armande could practically taste the indecision in the air. Someone high up had not given direct orders to the defense of the fortress, and the lack of coodination resulting from it would be a great help.

"I intend to open the main gates- the inner wall needs to be opened, as well, and that must be done from the front." The two crept through the Bastille, silencing guards as they went. "We'll open the inner gate first, then the outer one immediately after," Armande instructed. "This way, the mob will rush in at once and there will be no time for the guards to stop them. Distracted by the opening of the inner gate, they won't notice the outer one being unlocked."

"Sounds plausible," Dahlia replied. "The mechanism looks simple enough."

It was true; the winch that held the gate shut was a twin machine, one on each side of the outer gate, and looked as if it could be operated by one man. Or woman.

"I will open the inner gate," Dahlia announced.

"No you won't."

"Yes, I will," Dahlia insisted. She pointed at the side of the inner keep. "See the windows? I could jump from here to there, catch the wall, and slip inside. There is no one on the upper levels, we can see that from here. The gate is doubtless opened from the inside."

"Yes, and flanked by every gendarme in the prison," Armande argued.

"I will create a distraction on my way," Dahlia grinned. "I haven't picked locks in some time. I hope I have not forgotten.""Free the prisoners?" Armande hissed.

"The gendarmes will be chasing them down, and overlook me." She smirked. "Get to the winch. The moment the inner gate opens, release the outer lock. The rest will take care of itself.""And who will take care of you?" he muttered, anxious, as Dahlia stood and climbed onto the parparets. His heart leapt with her as she reached for the prison wall; she made it, and Armande breathed again. Simple as she had described, Dahlia scrambled in a window on the upper floor.

Armande began to move. He was on the opposite side of the Bastille from the gate, and the crowd outside was growing louder; he took that to mean it was growing in number. He heard commotion inside the prison, and couldn't stop himself, every other second, from looking in the small windows to catch some glimpse of... something. If he could just be certain she was alright, he would have been less distracted.

Before long, he was at the wall over the winch. Two gendarmes guarded it; Armande was almost offended at the small challenge.

"YOU!"

Armande looked over in time to see a rifle aimed at him.

Without a second thought, he leapt over the edge of the Bastille wall, landing on top of the two gendarmes below, killing them both instantly. Turning his attention back to the original threat, he swiped a throwing knife from his belt and chucked it, greeted by the familiar thunk of metal blade meeting flesh as his knife hit home in the gendarme's chest.

The slow creaking of old wood and iron met his ears; the inner gate was opening. He kicked the winch free.

Nothing happened.

Not nothing; the strain loosened on the corded rope, and simulateously tightened on the other side.

Armande was just planning how to climb the mechanism itself across the drawn gate when he saw her. Dahlia, sprinting across the gravel yard, sword in hand like a pirate, dodging and weaving attackers as she went. Alarm rushed into Armande's throat, and he leapt down immediately, landing on an unsuspecting guard that he left dead as he ran to keep Dahlia alive.

She fought like a demi-god. Armande had never seen Dahlia in battle, but he remembered Eliane's words about her abilities and no longer had reason to doubt. She pressed her way up the steps to the second winch, Armande catching up as quickly as he could, and gained the platform without serious injury.

The last pair of gendarmes were ready, or so they thought. The platform was too narrow for both to fight at once, so they filed one after the other, the first trying to draw Dahlia into a strong attack that he might have used against her. This was smart, for all the other men had tried to use their greater force against her, which was what Dahlia was expecting. She didn't, however, fall for the trap. Feeding him just enough blade to make him overconfident, Dahlia twisted him sideways, out of the way, leaving the winch unprotected. This, as Armande was nearing the three, having dispatched the remaining guards that stood in his way.

She gave it a savage kick, and it broke loose, the great drawbridge of a gate falling unrestrained as the rope wheeled wildly off the roll.

The gate was open, the people were streaming inside.

And the second gendarme landed a solid slash at Dahlia's abdomen. Spitefully, he pulled his blade out where it was deeply embedded in her armor and struck her with his fist, throwing her off balance and off the platform to the stone yard.

Over all the screaming and running and violence, Armande swore he heard the sound of Dahlia's body hitting the ground below.

Then, his heart resumed beating. He rushed her attacker, took his head from his shoulders in one blow and kept moving without a thought. He almost leapt over the edge of the wall after her, but stopped short, leaning out to look.

She lay far below, sprawled out, as if she had tried to minimize the damage. He knew from where he stared, horrified, that she had been unsuccessful.

Armande dived for a cart of hay nearby. Why couldn't it have been closer? Why couldn't it have been within her reach?

The straw cushioned his fall, sticking in his face and impeding his way to where Dahlia had fallen. He struggled out, still shedding bits of hay as he closed the distance, mind and heart racing. He had to fight through the crowd as it rushed inside. Hebarely heard them, barely noticed them.

She had tried to roll when she hit; Dahlia's body was scratched and bruised from her violent impact and the cruel skidding across the gravelly landscape. The Bastille sat on a foundation of rocks. The landing had been hard. Too hard.

Then her eyes landed on him. She was still alive, barely. Armande dropped to the ground beside her and collected her into his arms; she cried out as her left arm and leg flopped piteously at awkward angles. If Armande was to guess, he would assume they had been shattered.

His mind split, facing a hazy schism as half did as it would have done were this anyone else he held in his arms. Her injuries were too great, and medical assistance too distant; she was fading fast from the wound in her abdomen, and even without the two-story fall that would have been a challenge to aid her for. The broken limbs, the bleeding, the doubtless head trauma... it was a wonder she wasn't dead already.

The other half scrambled, legs falling out from under it in the attempt to find some way, some possible route to her survival.

Like treading water, Armande found himself floundering, frustrated and infuriated by a mind that was failing him, failing Dahlia, in her greatest need. He undid himself, unable to think or act, except to sit there, cradling her, as her blood and life leaked out onto the scraggly hillside grass

Dahlia looked up at him again. Blood striped her face and flooded one eye, but she was still so lovely... still so perfect...

Her hand reached up slowly, the arm that wasn't mutilated, reaching as if to touch his face. Armande couldn't breathe and didn't even know why, just waited in perfect stillness for her fingers to brush his jaw.

They never made it. Like a weight dropping when it is finally too heavy to bear, the life left her face and eyes and body and her arm fell away. Her still-staring eyes emptied, and her struggling heartbeat snuffed out. The life and energy that had enchanted him from the first trickled away and scattered. Like fall leaves.

My name is Armande de Seville, and I finally understand.

I understand for the first time what it is I have left in my wake all these years. Finally the victim, the suffering engulfs me, drags me under. It is precise and merciless. More agonizing is the knowledge that unlike a sword or an arrow I cannot pull it out, let it heal. I cannot escape; under a wicked sky, I suffer the pain of loss.

Like something feral inside my chest, it fights, and howls, and burns, and I cannot know whether the agony would scream from my throat and be gone or consume me entirely if I were to loosen my iron grip on it. I look down at Dahlia's dead face again, feel the hollow weight of her empty shell, and my control splinters. It won't stay contained. So I let it break free.

The pain doesn't lessen. Instead, it thunders through my chest, into every vein and pore with the roar of primordial agony that starts in my gut and won't stop. I can't breathe. I can't think. Am I still in my body? How did so many survive this sickening loss of control?

Eventually, when the sounds of battle around me in the Bastille begin to matter again and her body begins to cool, I lift Dahlia in my arms and begin to walk away. Away from all of it. My steps carry me away from the Bastille, away from Robespierre, away from Camille Desmoulins and his massacre, away from the revolution and the madness. Just...away.

Eventually, Armande stopped walking. He looked around, still carrying Dahlia's lifeless corpse; he was at the edge of Paris, nearly walking into the countryside. He was tempted to keep walking. The forests and wilderness had healed him before, long ago in America when he hadn't known how much he had needed it. Perhaps it could do the same now.

Instead, he turned and entered an inn, small, shabby, and deserted, as the proprietor was likely celebrating in the streets of Paris now with the rioters returned from their successful liberation of the Bastille. The sun had set and dusk settled while he had walked, and as he lay Dahlia on a narrow, rickety bed unpstairs, Armande sat in a chair he had taken from the bar and watched the night's shadows lay thick upon the corners of the room, the contours of her face. In the dim light, perhaps, she wouldn't look so pale. So... dead.

Darkness came full and relentless as he sat, without motion and without expression. The horror of her death had left him feeling bizarre, washed out, like a shell an ocean wave had filled and left empty.

As the moon rose, a wolf cried out in the forest far beyond the tended fields; the sound echoed in the emptiness that had taken home to Armande's chest. His hands, hanging numbly between his knees on which his elbows rested heavily, began to shake.

He reached out and took one of Dahlia's hands; it was pointless. She was gone, cold like so many he had left dead on the street, in their carriages, in their beds. It was all he deserved, to have the tables so cruelly turned back on him, but she had deserved much better. What had Dahlia ever done to earn everything that she had endured? If only... Armande's vision blurred.

Shocked, he swiped at his eyes, to find tears hovering, ready to fall.

He thrust his face into his hands, scraping his fingers through his hair, suddenly alive again with the reality of what had happened. If only he had never met Dahlia. If only he had never taken that contract on Leandre's life. If only they had caught him before he left for America, if only he had never come back. If only just one of the many things that could have gone right would have, maybe Dahlia...

Armande froze.

His own heartbeat was the only thing he heard for several moments, as certain things began to slide heavily into place as he understood them. His hands began to shake again; this time, in was in rage.

Suddenly his chair was empty. Dahlia's body was alone in the room, and the door had slammed shut as Armande de Seville took to the night, fueled by a sudden understanding that had been lacking, until now.

It never occurred to Armande that Gerard might have been surprised to see him. Of course, it never occured to Armande that Gerard would be expecting him, either. All Armande could think of was the color red, and just how much he wanted to see Gerard bathed in it.

There were only a handful of places Gerard might be; his plan required one close to the palace, close to Louis, but also one where few might happen by. Likewise, an average apartment wouldn't do. If Armande was correct, Louis XVI would have wanted to keep Gerard close; the French king was nervous of the Assassin order, though they had been allies since the beginning of his reign, and their suspicion would have caused him great distress. Gerard would not have settled for a dusty, moth-eaten flat, in any case, not if he could afford better.

And he could afford much better.

Armande flew over the rooftops, not caring whether he was seen. His fury, fueled by desperate anguish over Dahlia's death, burned in him like an engine, like the heart of a train blasting through the night, and it wasn't going to stop until the one responsible was made to pay.

In Eagle vision, the city of Paris was a sprawling mass of dark shapes and spires, gaping chasms of streets and the steady beat of roof tiles under Armande's boots. It was midsummer, and the air was humid; a halo ringed the moon above. It was an omen of trouble risen.

Armande was going to the palace. Gerard could not be far from it.

He skidded to a halt on the high roof of the nearest building to the gate. Guards glowed red everywhere; Louis XVI, King of France, knew a tide was turning. How did he know?

Why, Gerard had told him.

Armande searched about with his Eagle eyes.

Flecks of gold picked themselves out of the stone of the palace courtyard to shimmer teasingly amongst the red trails of the royal guard. Armande could see the footprints clearly from his perch, and followed them around the back of the building. They disappeared into a side entrance, attached to the stables and flanked by soldiers. There wre fewer men here, with less concern to be spared over the fate of the horses when the main gates needed securing.

Armande took to the air, leaping for the high fence.

A moment later, he was plummeting gracefully on the far side of the iron, performing a slow front flip as he fell, until he landed on his back in a large pile of hay waiting to be loaded into the stable loft.

A guard heard the noise and moved closer to investigate. He was one of three near the stable entrance, and his comrades seemed little bothered by what was probably a cat hunting mice through the hay. Armande grabbed the guard by the collar as he drew near, plunged his hidden blade into the man's neck, and flipped the body unceremoniously into the hay pile.

The remaining two guards finally grew wary when Armande stepped into the open and approached them from the front, not bothering to hide his aproach. One opened his mouth to raise the alarm; both found knives embedded in their foreheads a moment later. Armande walked on by, treading rage like water and following the glowing path of his oldest friend.

The stable door was locked. Armande kicked it open, only to find it securely barred from the inside as well. He wasn't getting in this way.

He scanned the area for other soldiers; on this side the palace, with no gates nearby, only a handful showed red in his vision, and they were focused outward, not towards the palace where all was supposedly well. No problem of being spotted.

Armande began to climb the outer facade of the Palais Royale, scaling from window sill to lattice to ledge. In a buliding this ornate, the going was fairly easy, and the guards' inattention worked to his advantage. Before long, Armande had slipped into an open upper-floor window. There was, however, no one in the room, and no trails to follow, gold or otherwise. Armande let his Eagle sight fade.

He opened the door and entered the corridor. Armande had never been in the palace, although he had been in similar structures. He made his way down to the floor level, dodging servants, dropping guards, and all the while flicking in and out of Eagle vision, searching for a trail to follow. All the while, trying not to close his eyes, because although all he could see was red when they were open, all he could see was Dahlia when they were shut.

A touch of gold at a corner caught his eye.

Armande didn't spare a moment. He was on the hunt.

The heavy door of Gerard's hideout splintered under the blow from Armande's boot.

Armande smiled his slow, wolfish grin and stalked inside, feeling every bit the predator he had always been. If his old familiar smirk was laced with a fast-moving current of building instability, no one was there to notice.

"Gerard!" he roared, full-throated and bestial.

He had entered a suite of apartments, lavish and cool in the summer dawn, and deserted. But the gold trails converged here, crisscrossing over the floor like the bands of a spider's web. And beneath that proof, Armande could feel the closeness of his friend. His prey.

"Gerard! Where are you, mon vieil ami?" he screamed, the last seared in sarcasm. My old friend...

Perhaps before Armande was ready, from around a curtained corner, Gerard appeared.

He was obviously not happy to see Armande. Neither did he seem completely prepared; his breeches and boots were on, but he wore only an undershirt, which was untucked. He did, however, wear a sword at his waist, and was in the process of strapping on his vambrace and hidden blade.

"I wasn't certain you were coming," Gerard said darkly, smiling as if gently teasing Armande about being late. He secured his vambrace as he spoke, eyes fixed on Armande as he walked to stand across the room from him.

"It was you!" Armande snarled. "You, who took the contract on Leandre Touveilles, you who told him and Eliane where to hide the map. You who crossed Dahlia's path with mine and moved me like a chess piece across the damn world. You, who took the Piece of Eden first."

Armande was already striding across the room, devouring the distance, his eyes never moving or blinking.

"I wouldn't do that, were I you, Armande." Even as he spoke, Gerard reached for something tucked into the back of his belt. Armande ignored it, simply moving forward, intent on reaching Gerard and wrapping all-too-eager fingers securely around his neck.

Just as Armande was an arm's length from him, Gerard brandished what at first appeared to be nothing more than a ball of gold light. And Armande found his limbs wouldn't move.

Unyielding, his legs planted into the floor and his arms were drawn rigid out to either side. A faint gold glow emanated from Armande; he looked up at Gerard. It was the Piece of Eden.

It was shaped as a spyglass, a seafaring object. Burnished gold shone like the sun, no, like an idol, radiating the same eerie gold glow Armande was now ensorcelled within. Fine lines traced patterns and designs across the Spyglass' surface. It was... beautiful. Inhuman.

"I knew you would be coming by, Armande," Gerard continued, still holding the Spyglass. From where Armande stood, he could see a fine tremor in Gerard's hands. For the first time, Armande took a good look at Gerard, at the state of the room. It was a disaster, clothes thrown about, a trunk lying open and half-packed. Gerard himself was not much better. He looked sick. Ill, as if suffering from a chronic ailment. Worse than the last time Armande had seen him.

"Running somewhere?" Armande spat. "I would have thought you would travel lighter. But then, you are a very different man than the one I knew."

"Oh, I'm quite the same," Gerard insisted, trying to tie his sandy hair back in a queue with one hand, unwilling to put down the Spyglass. "I think you'll discover that I was always an opportunist."

When Armande said nothing, merely glowered, Gerard twitched uncomfortably.

"You set me up. It was all you, wasn't it? Right down to suggesting to Eliane they use Dahlia as a shield for their secrets- and putting it in Richellou's head to bring me back."

"You set youself up, mon vieil ami," Gerard threw back, mimicking Armande's earlier comment. He stood before Armande and drew his sword; for the first time, fear stirred in Armande. Although his sword arm shook violently, Gerard glared at him now, all attempts at friendly banter gone. "Don't you speak to me of plots and misdeeds. Anything I've done can be laid at your feet."

Armande had nothing to say to that. It was completely true. But he had to keep Gerard talking, at least long enough to think of some escape.

He laughed caustically. "This revolution, I admit, outdoes anything I have thus achieved."

"It isn't my doing," Gerard replied shortly. He dropped the blade as if it were unbearly heavy, though he kept the Spyglass securely clasped in his hand. "Louis XVI and that fool wife of his are to blame for what their people have become. I merely profit from it."

"So you tell Louis when to run and when to fight, and he pays you," Armande accused flatly. Gerard's face didn't change, but he took a contemptuous bow.

Armande scoffed, mind racing. "What a fool you must be, to think this will not backfire."

Gerard shook his head slowly. "You would know much about that; you must truly understand your position if you've begun bluffing. But I'm afraid you are mistaken."

"Look to the Spyglass," Armande challenged. "It sees all, does it not? It can tell you the truth."

Gerard laughed harshly. He truly didn't seem to be healthy; his eyes were ringed in purple bruises from little sleep, and his skin had taken on a gray tinge since the last time Armande had seen him. And that shaking... it was as if standing was all Gerard could manage. He glanced down at the Spyglass in his hand, then away. The connection flared in Armande's mind instantly. He quietly adjusted his strategy, and continued.

"What? Worried it will show you something you do not wish to see?" Armande goaded.

Shuddering with the effort, Gerard leveled his sword at Armande's chest, and for a moment he thought he might have pushed too far. But then, glaring at Armande all the way, Gerard lifted the Spyglass to his eye.

Spasms shuddered through his body. Armande felt the hold on his limbs loosen, but didn't break, as Gerard stared into the future. Then, he returned, as did the pressure holding Armande.

Gerard didn't look at his captive. Slowly, he lowered the Piece of Eden from his eye, quieted.

"What did you see?" Armande asked. He hadn't meant his voice to come out in a whisper, but the tension in Gerard's face gave the air between them a sudden chill. He didn't like what he had just seen.

"None of your damn business," he snapped.

Armande studied Gerard. The sickly cast of his skin had deepened, and a nervous sweat had begun to show at his forehead. The sword in Gerard's hand drooped to the floor, as Gerard was clearly unable to hold it. The predatory grin returned, but Armande smothered it, intent on his new course of action.

Armande let out a barking laugh, half-mad and sudden enough to startle Gerard, who lost his grip on the sword in his hand completely. It clattered against the floorboards, jamming Armande's own nerves into knots.

"You can't even kill me, can you?" Armande taunted. "You can barely hold your blade at all- I doubt you have the strength to do anything except give me a papercut. Is the Spyglass too much for you?"

Gerard's face contorted. "Silence, you."

"I bet you can barely walk," Armande continued. "How much life does it take from you when you use it, as you are now, to hold me in place? Pathetic. When Altair used the Apple at 90 years old he did so unaffected. Even Ezio could move freely. But you... you aren't man enough to weild an Artifact. You may as well run; this ploy with Louis XVI is doomed, if you have to use the Spyglass more than once a year."

"Shut up!" Gerard tried to stab Armande with his hidden blade. But although the weapon grazed Armande's skin painfully, Gerard simply didn't have the muscle power to do any damage with it.

"You'll have to let me go, you realize." Armande fixed Gerard with a flat stare, inevitable and piercing.

Gerard stared back.

"As you can imagine," Gerard replied, curt as he retreated back into his rooms. "I have a contingency plan."

Pain burned through Armande's limbs as the light of the Spyglass flared. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, too weak and disoriented to move.

Then the world started to come back into focus. He was still in the palace. Not much time had passed; perhaps a few seconds, as the sky was still only just growing bright with coming dawn. Armande struggled to his feet, feeling twenty years older. He stumbled after Gerard, further into the apartments. He hadn't far to go.

"You see, Armande, I saw you might do something like this," Gerard continued, working half behind a curtain at something Armande could not see. "So I decided to lay the bricks for a Plan B, justs in case."

Armande had shuffled within knife-distance of Gerard when his foe straightened, dragging something out from behind the curtain with him. Not something. Someone.

Dahlia.

She was pale and bruised, and simmering in fury, but it was her. Her hands were tied behind her back and even her feet were hobbled together to restrict her movement, but it was her.

The world tilted and started spinning the wrong way. Armande's eyes saw her, knew the memorized angles of her face and curves of her body. His ears knew the sound of her breath, her silence. But though his eyes and ears, and no doubt his fingers and mouth, if he got the chance, might think they knew truth, it was a lie.

It was the Spyglass.

"This is an illusion," Armande accused instantly.

"Is it?" Gerard asked lightly, holding a now-steady knifepoint to Dahlia's neck, ready to stab out her jugular. She showed no fear, glaring insolently, as if he was a mere annoyance.

Armande hestiated, thinking. He had slipped up in his plan; did Gerard realize that Dahlia was dead? That her body was growing cold in an inn at the edge of Paris? Or was it? Hope and dread warred in Armande's chest.

"I was fairly certain you would change sides once you arrived in Paris," Gerard coughed, clearing his throat to continue. "I doubted that my plan to retire in peace would pan out for much longer, not once you ferreted me out. You consistently meet my greatest fears and undo my greatest schemes. I had no intention of letting you ruin even my escape."

"I have something I'd like to say," Dahlia announced. Her eyes were locked on Armande's; they darted to his knife belt, they back to his face.

"I don't want to hear it."

"Too bad," Dahlia murmured.

Her booted foot crushed Gerard's toes, and although the half-moment it may have bought her would not have been enough for her to use to her advantage, it bought Armande enough time to whip out a throwing knife and take aim.

The knife landed with a wet thud in the back of Gerard's hand. The hand the held the Spyglass.

Dahlia threw all of her weight into Gerard as Armande dived for the Piece of Eden. Unfortunately, with her feet tied and her weight being much less than his, her ability to distract him was small; Gerard struck her across the head as hard as he could and scrambled after Armande. Dahlia, stunned and possily out cold, crashed into the wall and crumpled to the floor. Without a spare thought for her, Gerard caught Armande's belt, dragging him back with strength unsuspected, and making a dash after the Spyglass rolling away across the floor.

Armande caught him in a headlock, pinning him to the floor and cinching his arm as tight around Gerard's neck as possilbe, hoping to stop the air flow. But to his dismay, Armande found his own muscles weakened, no doubt by the power of the Spyglass. Gerard was not only able to breathe without great difficulty, but also fight free. The two men grappled on the floor for several minutes, nether able to draw a weapon to gain the upper hand over the other. Gerard had been a close match for Armande's skill, in their youth. Age had not seemed to change this, and while both were drained by the Piece of Eden, their skills were again even.

Meanwhlie, Dahlia was lying still. If she was real, if it wasn't a lie, there was no telling what injuries Gerard had inflicted, with the head shot, or before Armande arrived. She was a distraction; was that Gerard's plan?

"Tell you what, Gerard," Armande panted, working to lace his hands around the other's neck, "If you want to run, I'll let you. You can't take the Spyglass, but if you want to keep your life, I'll allow it."

Gerard scoffed, peeling Armande's fingers off his neck and landing a knee in his gut. "And I'll let you retire peacefully to a farmstead in Spain so you can spend the rest of your life milking goats."

Before Armande could make a counter-remark, Gerard finally struck a clean blow, an uppercut to Armande's jaw. He propelled himself after the Spyglass; the flare of gold light told Armande that he had made it.

Istantly, Gerard's ill appearance returned, as did the shaking. Coincidentally, at that moment Dahlia again began to stir, struggling into a sitting position. The timing was not lost on Armande.

"You can't beat me that way, Gerard," Armande growled, standing shakily; he hadn't taken a direct blow to the head in a long while, and it was more disorienting than he remembered. "You're too weak. You'll have to fight me, eventually."

Gerard already knew this; Armande could see it in his face.

Slowly, Gerard lowered the Spyglass. His eyes wavered between Dahlia and Armande, calculating.

"It's two on one. Hardly fair."

"Life isn't fair, you ponce," Armande snapped.

Dahlia snorted, so much like the woman Armande knew, he forgot to doubt her, for a moment. "I doubt you have much to fear from me, at present." True enough; she still seemed out-of-sorts, and was still securely bound hand and foot. Gerard had not underestimated her when taking her captive.

"I have no pistol," Gerard pointed out.

"I have no Spyglass," Armande threw back.

"Fair enough."

"Tell you what," Armande smirked, "I won't shoot you if you won't run off."

"Sounds pefect," Gerard returned snidely, moving slowly to tuck the Spyglass back into his belt. Still he hesitated.

Head pounding, Armande found his patience thin. "Unless you've lost your mind and your balls simultaneously."

Gerard gave a sarcastic, patronizing smile. "Fine."

"Blades only?" Armande asked, circling, drawing his sword.

"No better duel to be fought," Gerard answered, joining the circle, moving smoothly to keep distance from Armande across the floor.

Unnoticed, Dahlia leaned against the wall, watching. Armande forced her from his mind; the illusion would be broken as soon as he defeated Gerard. As soon as he had the Spyglass.

Armande swung his bastard sword, testing. Gerard blocked it expertly. He swung again, and this time Gerard moved to slip behind Armande's defense. Pleasantly alarmed, Armande spun away and ducked Gerard's attempt to decapitate him.

"I was afraid this might be too easy," Armande commented, hacking at Gerard's parries, swerving and thrusting to try and take Gerard's balance.

"You're too easy in every other respect, a decent fight was unexpected," Gerard shot back.

Gerard moved in, and Armande flipped over his back and swung for his knees; steel crashed on steel, and Gerard tried to twist the sword from his opponent's hand. This nearly backfired; Gerard clung to his weapon by a hairsbreadth.

Matched evenly in skill and experience, Gerard and Armande exchanged attacks and blocks, spins, thrusts, stabs, and parries until both, worn thin from the power of the Spyglass, were exhausted. The sun had met the horizon, sweeping over France as the two battled.

"How did you ever look me in the face?" Armande spat finally. "All the while, you twisted my life behind my back."

Gerard dodged and swung back. "Why not? I hated you."

"For what?" Armande forced Gerard's blade away. "What did I ever do to you? I stabbed you that one time; did years of my teasing build up?" he sneered.

"You were so talented," Gerard's calm faltered, and he lashed out. "So strong, you could just leave. You weren't afraid, you weren't worried. All the time we grew up together, I wanted to be you!"

Armande's sword darted to intercept Gerard's blade; meanwhile, he wasn't finished with his rant.

"Everyone hated you because they feared you. But no one would ever fear me- no one would ever respect me, not when compared to you!" Gerard flung his weight and blade at Armande, and managed to nick his shoulder. "Why would anyone care about Gerard- was he a threat? Well, I am now!"

Armande moved out from under Gerard's weight. He pounded the hilt of his sword into Gerard's hand, already wounded, and stole the sword straight out from it.

Unarmed, defenseless, Gerard stood, momentarily shocked. Armande dived in for the kill.

Gold light flared out, stunning Armande and blinding him, long enough for Gerard to turn tail and flee.

He had made it nearly to the door of his suites when Armande recovered, dropped his sword, took aim with his vambrace pistol. It only took a heartbeat to line the shot; however, as Armande squeezed the trigger, memory flashed before his eyes and for the first time, the thrill of the hunt abandoned him. It wasn't a target he sighted, but a friend. Even a friend who had betrayed him. But Armande's hands knew what to do without him. He had already fired.

Blood blossomed over the back of Gerard's white shirt as he fell to the floor. Armande had shot him in the lower back; he had been aiming for his heart.

"Nice shot," Dahlia commented drolly.

"New gun, I haven't had time to practice," Armande snapped, tucking the weapon away and picking up his sword. He wiped it on his cloak before sheathing it, walking all the while towards Gerard.

The Spyglass lay a few feet away. Gerard reached for it, futilely, his life spilling onto the carpet with the effort.

Armande walked past him and picked up the Piece of Eden, carefully, cautiously. He looked back at Gerard; the man was almost pathetic now. Almost. A shadow of the boy Armande had grown up with echoed the sorrow, the failure in Gerard's eyes as he saw Armande with the Artifact.

And then Gerard died, the spirit going from his face like a candle, put out.

Dully, not completely there, Armande searched his body; there was an iron key that looked like it would fit Dahlia's shackles. Sure enough, it did. Soon, Armande stood beside the phantasm Gerard had invented, holding the Spyglass, afraid to look.

She looked real. So, so real. Real enough to touch.

"You are an illusion," Armande thought out loud. "Dahlia died yesterday. I know this isn't real. But I want it to be."

She seemed surprised; Armande ran cautious fingers over the Spyglass. It spoke to him, beckoning him to look, and he feared giving in. He set the Artifact on the nearest table and watched the light fade. When he could put it off no longer, he looked up at the illusion.

"This was really, very cruel," he told her, turning away. Armande took a seat heavily on a divan nearby, suddenly exhausted. He studied the mirage. She stood there, and the pain on her face, the heartache that should have been for him, almost made him throw away common sense. So what if it wasn't real?

"Is there anything I can do to convince you I'm real?" she managed to ask calmly.

Thinking, Armande's eyes landed on the Spyglass. "I suppose there is one way," he admitted. "Bring that thing over here?"

Dahlia looked at the Spyglass, clearly uncertain. But she picked it up, if gingerly, and brought it near, pulling up a chair to sit opposite Armande. He took the object from her, examining it thoughtfully.

"I hunted for this," he began absently. "I thought my revenge was the most important thing I had. The only thing I had left." A smile lit his face, even as those strange, unfamiliar tears began to well up again. "And then I met a ghost from my past. A skeleton, that I thought had been buried so deep under everything else in my closet that I doubted I would ever see it again. She meant... so much to me. I had never felt so much, not for anyone."

Abruptly, Armande dropped the Spyglass on the divan and took Dahlia's hands; they were warm. He could feel the life in them, see the blue of her familiar life force in his Eagle Sight. If it was an illusion, it was a thorough one. Crushing her smaller hands in his larger ones, he leaned his forehead against their joined knuckles, holding himself together by a thread.

"Please be real," he begged. "Nothing I have ever thought I needed before has meant as much as this does."

For several ragged heartbeats, there was no response. Then, the phantasm pulled her hands out of his.

Armande had no time to despair before her arms were wrapped around his head and shoulders.

"You foolish man," she chided gently. Dahlia hugged him tightly, and Armande's own arms found their way around her. "Could any illusion love you, as I do?"

Armande buried his face in her shoulder.


	9. Chapter 9

"You're back!"

Armande had seen Leverett approaching some distance off. He and Dahlia were riding towards the Ainsi, finally close to an end. Of their journey, at least.

"Yes," Armande agreed. "I survived."

"Armande, the Council-"

"Call them," he interrupted. The black glare he levelled at Leverett silenced any arguments; the younger man nodded simply. Armande looked over at Dahlia. "I leave here tonight, Dahlia. Are you coming with me?"

She nodded. It almost took Armande's breath away; in part from the simple, thoughtless agreement, without hesitation, and in part that she had agreed at all.

Armande turned back to Leverett. "Call the Council," he repeated. "I have a report to give, before I take my leave for the last time."

Leverett fell in beside Dahlia and Armande as they rode toward the Ainsi. "No need. They already know."

Of course they did. A bandage around Leverett's right hand caught his eye.

"What did you do to yourself?"

"Oh, this?" A apprehensive, coy look shadowed Leverett's face for a moment as his gaze flitted to Dahlia and back. "Sparring."

The Council was gathering; so, it seemed, was a multitude of Assassins, coming to watch what would doubtless be a grand show. The meeting would commence in the afternoon. There were still some hours before then, and Armande had plans to lay. But first Dahlia had her own agenda.

"Come," Dahlia beckoned, pulling Armande along by the arm. "There's someone I want you to meet."

It being morning, the beach was still shrouded in the shadow of the sea cliffs. Dahlia led Armande out the crowded main hall, through the whispers, down the steps, and onto the sand. He followed, nerves heightening as he slowly realized who he was going to see.

Finally, Dahlia stopped.

Armande stared out down the beach, in awe.

A boy wandered about the sandbar, flocked by seagulls. He was feeding them; a piece of bread was slowly disappearing from his hands as he broke it off and fed it to the gulls who cried and keened at him.

"Is that...?"

Dahlia nodded, a sly smile reflecting the sun off the sea. "Go on," she urged, pushing Armande in the boy's direction. He looked back at her; she shook her head. It appeared that this was a meeting he would have to make alone.

Intense curiosity, mild humility, overwhelming nervousness and a hundred other sensations flocked about Armande as the seagulls flocked about the boy down the beach. Armande swallowed and glanced back at Dahlia.

"Feeding the birds?" he joked anxiously. "Are you sure he's my son?"

A loud squawking drew their attention; a seagull was trying to draw near enough to pluck the whole bread loaf from the kid's hands. The boy hucked the whole loaf at the bird, bowling it over and causing a flurry of activity as the rest of the flock descended upon the food and the unfortunate victim of it. Dahlia sighed reprovingly.

"Ouais, he is my son," Armande answered himself with a snicker. He took off down the beach, leaving Dahlia to go meet the speck of life he had started all those years ago.

The boy heard him approach when Armande was perhaps a few steps away. He stared up in awe, forgetting the seagulls.

Armande knelt down to be on eye level. As he did so, he studied the child's face; so much like Dahlia. So much more so like himself. "Leandre?"

"That's me," his son answered. Even his voice was a chldish echo of his father's.

Armande swallowed down a medley of confused emotions. He grinned slightly. "Do you know who I am?"

Leandre nodded. "You are Armande de Seville. My father."

Shocked, Armande looked back at Dahlia. She smiled wider and waved, but came no closer.

"Mother showed me who you are," Leandre explained in that simple, matter-of-fact way that children have. Armande grinned again; how unpracticed he had grown, if Dahlia, not to mention a ten-year-old boy, could spy on him without him knowing.

"You are right," Armande answered. He gestured to the seagulls. "Annoying, aren't they? When they crowd too close."

Leandre nodded, a frown drawing his small features together.

Armande pretended to think about it. "I agree. Some things are very annoying when they crowd too close." They watched the seagulls peck apart the bread loaf; Armande glanced back at his son. His son. The phrase was still surreal. "Does your mother agree?"

"She says I shouldn't throw things at them."

Amused, Armande eyed Dahlia, who had wandered closer to the water's edge, maintaining a careful distance. "I'm sure she does," he muttered. Louder, he replied, "Well, I doubt the birds care one way or another if you throw food at them. They WERE asking for it."

Leandre laughed.

"Tell me," Armande began again, sobering slightly. "Do you like it here, Leandre?"

The boy seemed to think about it. He looked back and forth between the sea, the castle stronghold, and his mother in the distance before answering. "I suppose." But he wouldn't look at Armande; this wouldn't do.

"Do you like the people here?" Armande tried again.

"Yes," Leandre lied. Armadne could practically taste the lie; he would have to teach his son better.

"Tell the truth," Armande demanded, as gently as he could. Did he seem reproving? Too controlling? Too much like his own father? The thought was a horrid one. But Leandre didn't seem to notice.

"They are all right," Leandre admitted, "but the other boys... they don't always let me in their game. When their parents are near, I can't play."

Rage thundered up Armande's throat. He kept his face pleasant, but in his head he was listing every likely culprit, every possible speaker of the words, 'the traitor's son' or 'the bastard'. He had quite a list going; they would be taken care of later. For now, he nodded.

"People can be like seagulls. Stupid."

Leandre looked up at him, obviously uncertain what to say. Armande smiled, and the boy relaxed.

"Leandre, I'd like you to come away with me," Armande asked suddenly. "Your mother has already agreed; if you want, we can all leave this place."

Leandre stared. Armande held his breath, hoping to whatever entity was listening that this wouldn't be the end of his and his son's new acquaintance.

"Where are we going?" Leandre asked, anxious with curiosity.

"To America," Armande answered. "I have land, and a house there, where we can live. The Assassin order there is much smaller than here; we would live in my house, in Boston. But only if you want to go," Armande added firmly. "I won't make you."

Leandre looked at Dahlia, who had turned to watch the two of them. "Mother would come?"

"Of course," Armande answered, grinning again, the tension in his chest looseing at the look of wonder on Leandre's face.

"Would we have to come back here?" Leandre asked.

"Only if death is the alternative," Armande answered, half joking, half serious.

Leandre smiled cautiously; how much like Dahlia he was. "And... you would stay with us?"

"Always," Armande replied without hesitation.

When Armande and Leandre made their way over to meet up with Dahlia, both had huge grins on their faces.

"Good news?" Dahlia inquired, raising her eyebrows.

"Are we really all going to America?" Leandre asked, wide-eyed. Armande took no offense at the boy needing his mother's affirmation. Dahlia nodded and swept her son into a hug, kissing him on the forehead and making him squirm to break free.

"Yes, Leandre," Dahlia answered. "You better go start packing!"

Enthused, Leandre took off up the beach toward the Assassin complex. Both his parents watched him go. Armande let out a breath he had been holding.

"Thank you," he said finally. Dahlia laughed; it was such a strange sound, she did it so rarely.

"For what, this time?"

"For keeping our son," Armande replied, humor gone, replaced by something much more sincere and much more unsettling. But... it was not an unpleasant disturbance, Armande decided. Dahlia took his hand and led him back towards the castle.

As they walked, Armande watched their joined hands, and wondered why it had taken him so long to come to an appreciation of a touch this simple. This... blissfully innocent.

"Can you spare time for one other thing?" Dahlia asked finally.

The two of them travelled through a bustling Ainsi, everyone talking at once, gossiping, whispering, fearing and yet excited for the Council that had been called. When Dahlia and Armande came into sight, the sound stopped, slowed, shrunk away, only to grow again when they were past.

Their destination eventually became clear; Dahlia and Eliane's apartments.

"If we're going to see Eliane, I'd rather not," Armande commented dryly.

"No, thank you, I would prefer to avoid having to endure the two of you anymore," Dahlia answered. "She might be here, though..."

They entered, to find the room sunlit; Armande had never been here by day. Sure enough, Eliane sat by the window with a book. She looked up when the couple entered.

Eliane's face tightened. "Are you sure?" she asked Dahlia.

With a smile, Dahlia nodded. "I am."

Confused, Armande watched their exchange, nervous. Finally, Eliane stood and made for the door; on her way past, she gave Armande one last, half-hearted, suspicious glare. Then the door shut behind her, and they were alone.

Dahlia led Armande further inside, into her bedroom. "There's someone I'd like you to meet."

There was no one there, that Armande could see. The room was populated by nothing but furniture, Dahla's bed, desk... and a crib.

For a terrifying second, Armande's heart stopped beating.

He looked down at Dahlia, who waited anxiously for him to speak. He made a gesture, as if to approach. She urged him to, letting him lead the way across the room.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been so afraid; Armande peered over the side of the crib.

Dahlia scooped up her baby tenderly, making meaningless sounds to the child, who seemed to have just woken. Armande stared, transfixed, finding himself leaning closer curiously.

"This is why you could not come to Paris with me last winter," he answered his own question. Dahlia nodded.

Still staring at the baby, who gazed up at him with Dahlia's hazel eyes, he had to ask, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I almost did," Dahlia replied, still smiling, still not looking up at him. "The night you told me you were going to leave. And before that... I guess I just wasn't sure. I didn't want you to... I didn't want you to feel trapped, or forced." Armande looked up at her; she had done the same. "I felt like if I tried to close you in, you would only fight free."

He wanted to deny it; but, he had to admit, until recently that may have been exactly what he would have done.

"Can I hold..."

"Her. It's a girl."

"Her," Armande breathed as Dahlia handed him his daughter. In his entire life, he had never held a baby. He had rarely been around them at all, in fact. She stared up at him, eyes wide, so, so small in his large hands. Dahlia arranged his hold on her, but it didn't help the fear that somehow, just by being in contact with him, she would be injured. The rough edges of his vambraces, perhaps, or the too-great pressure of his fingers.

"What's her name?"

"She doesn't have one, yet."

"What? How old is she, and you haven't named her?"

"Well," Dahlia raised her eyebrows with a smile, "I didn't want to leave you out of choosing a name, this time around. And I admit that I couldn't think of any good ones, at any rate."

Armande snorted, teasing.

"Any thoughts?" Dahlia pressed.

"Our son is named for your father," Armande began, "but I assume Eliane would have a fit if we tried to name our daughter after her." The mental image brought a smirk to his face; his daughter smiled, slightly, in return.

"What about your mother?"

"No," Armande shook his head immediately. "Anything but that."

Meandering, he filtered through every female name he had ever heard. Most were French, of course, but none were really... right. He thought of America, the home he soon would return to with his family. His family... The word was so strange to think.

If it had been another son, perhaps George or Benjamin. Or John...

"Abigail," he said suddenly. Uncertain, Armande glanced over at Dahlia, gauging her opinion.

She nodded. "Abigail. Abby. I like it."

Relief swept in like a wave; Armande examined his daughter one last time, then set her down in her crib, more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life. He turned to Dahlia.

"Get our children ready to leave," he instructed softly.

She nodded. "What are you planning to do?"

He stared at her seriously, humanity slipping away like a curtain in the wind to reveal a disconcerting flame dancing beneath.

"I have some debts to repay."

The Council Hall was awash in sound. The nine councillors sat at the bench, fidgeting and twitching at shadows, expecting Armande to appear from thin air. Only Eliane seemed at peace, though her face, as usual, was drawn in typical scowl lines.

Every Assassin in the Ainsi was there. It was a mob, restrained, for now, to the benches on either side of the hall, but there was no doubt that chaos could easily break loose. Richellou could practically feel the ulcer forming in his stomach, stress over Armande, the Assassins, the Revolution, Louis XVI, and everything else pressed in on all sides. Speaking of, Armande was late.

Dahlia was already present, standing off to the side of the hall. She had refused to take a seat, preferring to stand at the ready should her aid be needed. Richellou almost snickered, and might have, had Eliane not been so close.

Before anyone was really ready, the ominous creaking of the great double doors echoed into the stone hall, and silence followed in its wake. Like night gliding in after the sun had faded, the general, hollow thrum of things that were lacking drowned all present as the doors opened fully, and Armande stepped through. He was not alone.

Richellou had been ready to throw accusations and condemnation at the outcast. But the moment his brain pieced together what his eyes percieved, he no longer remembered how to string words together in a sentence.

Armande strode into the Council Hall, unashamed, unafraid, like a glorious avenger, like a vision of Altair himself on his legendary return to Masayaf. Rage rose from him like heat from stone under the summer sun, spreading like ripples through the hall as he advanced.

In one hand, Armande's fingers were tightly wound in the long auburn hair of Adelaide, Richellou's daughter, heavily pregnant and struggling as best as her swollen body would allow. Armande dragged her, emotionless, across the floor; her shrieks of protest and supplications for mercy, falling on deaf ears, were the only sounds in the room. No one moved, or even fully believed what they were seeing. Surely, no one spoke. Richellou, paralyzed by sheer terror, could barely breathe.

Armande's eyes were fixed on High Councillor. They moved only once, to settle, for a heartbeat's span, on Dahlia.

"There is a debt I have to repay," Armande thundered. "Or rather, one to collect."

Adelaide's hysteria grew tearful, and Dahlia stared, hesitant, at this creature that had taken the place of Armande. It was him, still, but he was a mass of righteous fury, so entrancing that no one had yet made a move to stop him or save the woman he held hostage.

Staring around at the assembly, Armande continued. "This debt is from all of you. I call it in the name of every innocent that went unaided, every corruption that went unnoticed, and every wrong that went unpunished, including my own, because of the lazy, cowardly, and weak state this order has fallen in." Every word was venom spat at the audience; no one responded, too shocked at his accusations. His glare fixed again on Richellou. "But mostly, I am here to collect a debt owed to one young woman who came here seeking help and safety, and was met with hatred and ostracism from her own Brotherhood, her own family."

Dahlia's breath caught in her throat. Armande didn't look at her. He dragged Adelaide to her feet, laying a hand threateningly over her very-pregnant abdomen.

"There is life, is there not?" he taunted, glaring at Richellou, who was nearly faint with fear. He had gunmen posted; where were they? No one was making any attempt to stop this madman, who continued his monologue. "A child is the only sinless being, and unborn child even more so. What right do any here have to decide that, by right of that unborn child's parentage, that he or she should be excluded from the right to live?"

Armande's hidden blade whispered harmlessly out of his vambrace, like a snake baring its forked tongue. Adelaide cried out soundlessly, so gone to fear, now, that she had ceased to do anything but sob.

"Armande..." The word escaped Dahlia's lips like a ghost, far too quiet to be heard even in the hush of the stunned and silenced hall. Her throat was dry; fear choked Dahlia, real fear, as if her own life was the one threatened. She wanted to tell him to stop, to release this woman, but she was so overwhelmed by his public, aggressive defense of her and so afraid that any movement might spur him to take action, she dared not attempt to intervene. She was as captive as Adelaide, able to do naught but watch.

"A man's family is his greatest treasure, is it not, Richellou?" Armande growled, low, almost seductive, daring Richellou to do something, anything, with his eyes. "It wasn't enough to hate me. You felt it necessary to extend that hatred to my son. To his mother. And, no doubt, if we were to stay, to his sister, as well."

If we were to stay. Dahlia was beginning to wonder if they would be given the opportunity to leave.

"This weakness of this Brotherhood is evidenced here," Armande yelled, now, again accusing all present. "In the petty childishness and open betrayal of one of your own. Here is a debt unpaid, and I've come today to see that it is tended to."

Adelaide screamed as his fingers tightened in her hair. Armande moved. Dahlia could not.

Richellou's daughter stumbled across the floor and fell as Armande released her. Obviously still frozen in fear, she stared at Armande from where she was sprawled on the stone. He didn't spare her another glance.

"My business is not with an innocent child today." Armande raised a hand and pointed at Richellou. "It's with you."

Richellou stared about where his gunmen were supposed to be posted. "Fire, dammit, why doesn't anybody fire?"

"Perhaps they find it difficult without these," Leverett entered the hall behind Armande, followed by Manon. He threw down a rifle on the Council Hall floor, flanking Armande on his left side, where Manon took the right.

Dumbstruck, Richellou began to shake in rage. "Traitors! All of you!"

"I leave here on the morning," Armande announced. "I return to my home in America. Any who wish to leave this rotting carcass of an Order and follow, may. In the meantime," he glared at Richellou again, unmoved by the High Councillor's desperate anger. "Be in your office in a quarter hour. If I have to come find you, public display of your cowardice will not be the only punishment."

And with that, Armande turned, regarded Leverett and Manon with an wordless, austere nod, and walked out of the Council Hall.

Richellou stood at the door to his office. Whether to give him support or ensure that he came, the other eight councillors, even Eliane, had escorted him here, and circled him silently. He knew they would not come inside with him. Neither, it seemed would they let him leave.

He reached out for the doorknob, slowly, as if expecting it to burn him. His fear shamed him, but he couldn't stop it. What was he going to face? A dragon in human's clothes, waiting in a borrowed lair. With a barely-perceptible sigh, the door opened, and Richellou was ushered into his own office.

Somber darkness might have been more appropriate; regardless, this was the rare hour of the day when sunlight hit the great windows flat, and resonant sunlight floated on the air and lit the office like the inside of a lamp.

Armande was already there, standing behind the desk. His hood covered his face to the nose; a hot, new rush of fear rejuvenated Richellou, seeing in this man what had once made an Assassin the scourge of the continent. The office door was shut; there was nothing now but the two of them.

Fear was the enemy. Richellou shoved it away and strode forward. "How dare you," he thundered, setting aside the tremble his voice might otherwise have contained. "You threaten my daughter, my grandchild, you insult my order, and then you deem to summon ME into MY office?"

"Shut up."

Whether intentionally or not, Richellou obeyed. Armande finally moved, looking up to meet Richellou's eyes under the hood. Then, never removing his stare, he began to move around the desk.

"Don't you come any closer!" Richellou demanded suddenly.

The easy fluidity of Armande's stride became a torrent in a breath. Before Richellou had finished his command, Armande was already before him.

It had been a very long time since Richellou had been struck; like any Assassin, he had taken his share of hard hits in his day. A punch from Armande, however, was comparable to being clocked in the face with a sizeable rock. Richellou staggered, retaining his feet only barely.

"That was for my mother," Armande explained flatly.

"What?" Richellou sputtered, tasting the metallic tang of blood in his mouth.

Armande took a step and kicked Richellou in the jaw, where the older man was bent over already in pain. This sent Richellou to the floor, gasping. Merciless, Armande delivered another kick to the High Councillor's side, then one more, for good measure.

"That last was for what this Brotherhood has become, under your guidance," Armande growled, strolling back to the desk. "But more important that you pay for what you did to Devana."

Richellou just stared, unable to speak. His glare said volumes.

Armande settled into Richellou's chair. "You thought you hid it all so well." With a few easy motions, the secret comparments in Richellou's desk were open, and Armande was looking over the family lineage charts and notes that were hidden there. At the head of the top page was the name Altair Ibn-La'Ahad.

"You were tracing his bloodline." Armande sheafed through the papers absently while Richellou continued to lay supine on the office floor, half sitting, watching Armande. "It is impressive, the scope you managed to collect in the-que?- twenty, thirty years you spent searching? You had even less when you discovered that there was a nearly direct descendant of Altair living right here in the complex. But, unfortunately, she was already married."

Armande glared across the room, lowering that documents back to the desktop. "Blackmail isn't your only crime, now is it, Richellou? Or would you rather I call you Father?"

Richellou's face betrayed his open terror as Armande stood and circled the desk again, coming nearer. His face was black hatred, and Richellou could almost see a specter of death in Armande's steps and shadow. Calmly, Armande knelt beside Richellou and stared him in face.

"What did you tell her?" he asked quietly. "You didn't have much power, then, you couldn't have forced her that way. Did you tell my mother that if she refused to give you a son, you would take her daughter? That seems more your style. After my father died, there was nothing to stop you. Not when you had the Council by the throat."

Almost thoughtlessly, Armande's own hand found its way to Richellou's neck; he lifted him into a sitting position.

"I suppose I shouldn't throw stones," Armande hissed. "But Devana was too much for you. She still wouldn't cooperate, would she? Then there was Jacqueline and myself. We were getting older; old enough to become a threat if Mother ever asked for our help. So you drove us away. My sister left on her own- was she warned away? Threatened away? As for me, well... I suppose I made things too easy for you."

Armande's hand tightened around Richellou's throat. "Tell me, Richellou, did you really think I could have ever been your son? Answer."

Richelou coughed and glared defiantly. Armande shook him violently, and he folded.

"No," Richellou croaked.

"But you so wished I had been," Armande near whispered savagely. "You wanted more power still, and a family drenched in the blood of our patriarch was more than you could hope for. Because that's what I am; descended from both Ezio Auditore and Altair Ibn-La'Ahad, among others."

Armande threw Richellou as hard as he could against the floor. His calm facade splintered slightly and he stalked to the window. Resting his hands on the sill and staring out at the sunlight, Armande let out a barking laugh.

"Perhaps I am more your son than I am my father's," Armande commented. "After what I've done. But I know I am not. Because if you truly were, I would venture that you would have hidden the evidence better.

"That is all I have to say of this," Armande announced suddenly. "And likewise, I have nothing to explain to you of the revolution that I stood back and welcomed into this country. I hope the Templars do take control. They deserve it more than this Order does, at present."

Armande turned back to Richellou and approached once again. "If complete destruction is the only way to see to it that the world turns and this disgusting marsh of stagnant ideas and stagnant Assassins vanishes, so be it. I've set it in motion, and I intend to stand aside and let events take shape as they will."

"But, there is one more thing." Faint with desperation, Richellou watched Armande crouch beside him again on the floor. A dagger appeared in Armande's hand as he continued. "The matter of Dahlia Touveilles." His voice took on a cold edge of ice, and Armande snatched Richellou's wrist. At this point, the old High Councillor was too weak and unbalanced to resist beyond useless struggling.

"I imagine that Dahlia's life for the past ten years has been much like Devana's was, once my father was dead. I wonder, if I had not returned, would she have killed herself as well?" This last was less directed at Richellou, and more a question directed as if at a mirror. Armande was silent for a minute, then ripped the sleeve of Richellou's robe off, leaving his arm bare. He twisted the old man's arm so that his inner wrist and forearm faced upwards.

"I didn't take the time to count Dahlia's scars," Armande mused, laying the dagger against Richellou's skin. Richellou sturggled all the harder, but could do nothing. Armande raised his eyebrows in a gesture of 'oh, well'. "I will just have to estimate."

That night, Armande walked the Balcony one last time. Arrangements were being made, bags being packed, the entire Ainsi was in an uproar, and he was taking a few last minutes to spend hiding away in his favorite place this complex had to offer. And he was not alone.

"It isn't too late to jump," Eliane commented. "It would solve my problems, at least."

She walked up to the rail next to him. Armande watched her warily, ready, this time, for any tricks she may spring.

"Perhaps not," she added, glancing over at him. For the first time since he had come back to the Ainsi the summer before, he couldn't find the hatred in her eyes. Disdain, yes, dislike, yes, but tolerance, perhaps as well. It was a pulsing void between them, Armande realized, the lack of her hatred; it had solidly defined their relationship for some time.

"I never was one for extreme sports."

"I thought you leaving would make her forget," Eliane sighed.

Something dark, something writhing unfurled in Armande's chest.

"Forget what, precisely?" he asked, drawing Eliane out.

"You." She closed her eyes and rubbed them with one hand. "What you did."

"Oh?" Rage howled suddenly through Armande's head. "What I did?" His scathing tone was no longer lost on Eliane, and she was watching him now. He glared at her. "What I did?" he repeated. "What I did was rape your daughter, ruin her life for the span of an hour. What you did was subject your daughter to psychological torture for almost a year."

Eliane was speechless. And she did try; her mouth moved as if trying to form words, but she couldn't gather any together before Armande spoke again, leaning towards her furiously.

"Let's try to move on shall we?" he hissed. Armande drew back, leaning once again on the railing, simmering. "Dahlia has made it clear that she wants no more ill-will between you and I. It is the only thing she has ever asked of me."

And there, the conversation was over as soon as it had begun. Armande waited for Eliane to drag it out; she did not. In fact, she, also, went back to staring out at the sea. She made no further reference to it.

Instead, "Will you leave none of my family to me?" she asked tiredly.

Armande looked at her sharply. No hatred in her eyes, just resignation.

"The last time we had a conversation here, I would have sworn you wanted to MAKE a family with me," he japed, taking a heavy risk in assuming Eliane was up for his humor. She seemed to be very close to not tolerating it well, but didn't explode. Armande took it as a fair omen.

"I was wrong," she admitted, with only the palest hint of grinding teeth accenting her words. "I thought that by driving you off, I was protecting my daughter. It turns out, the best way to protect her was to bring you together."

This admission was surreal, to Armande. He truly didn't know what to say, or whether she was sincere in these words, at all. So he took a leap of his own.

"Come with us," he said suddenly. "Dahlia will be glad to have you. And in honesty, I believe I might come to tolerate you as well."

Eliane snorted, shaking her head. She didn't give an answer, however, instead choosing to watch the rhythmic pattern of the sea waves push and pull against the shore. A family of complicated women, Armande realized suddenly.

"How old are you?" Eliane asked without preamble.

He didn't see where it led, but answered anyway. "Forty-seven."

"I'm forty-eight." Eliane looked up at Armande, thinking. Then she turned away, heading back towards the Ainsi. "Well, I admit that I always had hoped for Dahlia to find her way into the arms of an Assassin. I did, however, hope for one slightly younger than myself."

She had been gone for a minute when Armande chuckled. He hadn't been aware Eliane possessed a sense of humor.

Their departure the next day was disappointingly uneventful. No one tried to stop them, no one barred their way. In fact, a sizeable group of cloaks waited in the Great Hall to leave with them.

"Fine," Armande gruffed, despite how pleased he was. "But I'm not paying travel expenses for all of you."

Richellou, long sleeves covering thick bandages on both arms, looked rather pale, and word had it that he had spent the better part of the night in the medical ward, being treated for severe bleeding. Fancy that. Armande sneered at him with a tad more petty smugness than he intended, then returned to gathering his family to leave.

For Dahlia's part, she was her usual placid self outwardly, but inside she fluttered like curtains in the wind. She had dreamed of leaving this place time and time again; now it was actually happening, and in the last fashion she would have suspected. Abigail was in a sling around her front, Leandre was practically dancing around the big, sleepy mare they had saddled for him, and if the two of them didn't keep Dahlia on her toes, she might have succumbed to dancing herself.

"Can I help with anything?"

Her hands froze on the straps to the saddlebag Dahlia had opened to recheck and repack the contents. Aside from the meeting with him when she and Armande had rode back into the Ainsi, she and Leverett had not spoken since she had broken his wrist. They certainly hadn't spoken alone, and she found herself nervous and oddly ashamed now that Armande wasn't here to act as a insulator between them.

"I'm quite alright, thank you," Dahlia turned to face him. His eyes dropped to her chest; at first, she was offended, before remembering that Abigail was hanging there and it was she who Leverett was gazing at. The sharp-edged reservior of motherly affection Dahlia harbored swelled a bit, bringing a smile to her face even as paranoia churned in her stomach.

Leverett looked back up to Dahlia; if she was expecting him to be repelled or uncomfortable, she was disappointed. "You have beautiful children, Dahlia."

In ten years, it was the first such comment she had ever heard, save from Armande himself and her sister, Madeliene. Prepared for it, she definitely wasn't, but she nodded hesitantly and accepted the compliment.

"I was also hoping to apologize," Leverett continued, moving to her saddle and tightening the straps to the cinch, which Dahlia hadn't been able to do tightly enough, fearing that she might harm Abigail. In truth, she had been wondering how she would solve the problem, and, going so long without outside aid that she no longer registered its availability when offered, Dahlia hadn't thought to let Leverett help when he asked if she needed it. He went on. "Before... that day when you broke my wrist, I was out of line. I misjudged the situation."

A crest of resentment reared in the back of Dahlia's mind, remembering. "Misjudged? Dare I ask what you thought the situation involved?"

Leverett considered his words, a safe move. "I thought... I assumed... that with Armande gone, and so many of our bretheren against you, you may have assumed that you would be stuck raising his two children alone, all your days, with no hope of catching a better man to help you."

"I have made it this far alone," she replied coldly. "I have no need of a man, any man, to raise my son and daughter."

"Now I see it," Leverett agreed. He sighed, retying the cinch and stepping away from the horse. "You don't need any man, you just need one man. That man," he nodded in the direction of Armande, who was a few yards off. A good-natured smile appeared, and Leverett sighed again, wistfully. "Not, unfortunately, me."

Dahlia chuckled slightly. "If I had known your interest ran so deep, perhaps I would have found a more gracious method of declining, instead of sudden brutality."

Leverett shrugged, still grinning. "It's my own fault. I had ten years to make a move, and I never did. You were always too... untouchable." At Dahlia's sudden glare, he rephrased. "Not because of who you are or what you are. I mean... you were always like a well-fortified keep, polite and neat and not unattractive, mind you, but there was always a tanglible sense like, like there was no way you would ever open the gates."

Dahlia snorted. "If men weren't so keen with their, uh, seige engines, gates would be rather unnecessary."

A flush of red lit up Leverett's ears; he obviously hadn't meant it that way. Dahlia saved him from trying to fix the double meaning.

"You are right, however," she admitted. Unconsciously, she rested a hand on Abigail, who had begun to stir. "I never did want anyone near me."

Still a bit red, Leverett looked over at Armande again. "I guess it took a skilled sneak and a skilled charmer."

Dahlia laughed at that, surprising herself. "That it did, Leverett, that it did."

"Speaking of... siege engines," Leverett smirked. "It seems that at some point or another, Armande inferred that you and I, well... went castle-claiming." At the look Dahlia gave him, part disapproval, part amusement, Leverett had to laugh again. "I truly don't know where he got the idea, but it is amusing. He almost killed me one day in the training hall over it."

"That sounds a bit serious," Dahlia noted, raising her eyebrows. Abigail was awake, now, and Dahlia pulled her from her sling to hold the baby against her shoulder.

"I'm not worried." Leverett watched Dahlia with her daughter, smiling distantly. "Might hold her?" he asked suddenly. "I am her cousin, after all."

At first, Dahlia didn't note the last part. She was busy debating the wisdom of handing her infant daughter over to Leverett, and trusting that he wouldn't drop her. Then she caught it; her eyes narrowed, and she paused in the motion of moving Abigail from one shoulder to the other.

"What?"

"Don't tell Armande," Leverett whispered conspiratorially. "I'm actually his nephew. My mother, Jacqueline, is his sister."

Dahlia's mouth hung open, seeing now, for the first time, the similar nose, jaw, cheekbones, and even eyes. The face was slimmer, and the hair lighter, that was all. How had she never noticed it before? She must truly have been blind, or inattentive.

"How does no one know?" she asked, incredulous. "You look just like him- well, obviously not like him enough, but the resemblance is striking." She scoffed. "I feel idiotic."

"Don't," Leverett waved her away. "No one figured it out. Mother used to worry that someone would recognize me, but no one ever has."

"Still," Dahlia persisted, "the Council doesn't even know, do they? If Mother knew you were Armande's nephew, she would have... well, we know what she might have done, but you see my point."

"I came to live here as a child," Leverett explained. "Mother left, worried for our safety, before I was born. The Council probably doesn't even know she had any children- but when I was a little older, she sent me to stay at the Ainsi. She thought rightly that the last place anyone would look for her family would be directly under their noses."

The ingenuity, or more deftly described as dumb luck, that Armande's family sometimes displayed was baffling to Dahlia. It made sense, in the most far-fetched and unlikely example of a successful evasion. There was no point in trying to understand further; instead she tilted her head to one side, thinking.

"Armande truly doesn't know?"

Leverett shook his head.

"You don't think he wants to know?"

With a roll of his shoulders, Leverett twisted his face in an expression of uncertainty. "I've considered telling him. But you know him better than I do; I've spent the better part of a year earning a small measure of respect from him. If he knew he was my uncle..." Dahlia did know Armande so well. Knowing that Leverett was his nephew, he might never see him as an equal. And Dahlia knew what it felt like to be seen as a second-class human. She nodded.

"I won't tell him," she promised.

"Good," Leverett seemed relieved. He grinned again. "Now, about holding my cousin?"

It was only when they were saddled outside and ready to ride off that Eliane showed herself. A travelling bag was slung over her shoulders, and she rode her own mare, packed for the trip up the coast, and, beyond that, the journey overseas.

Dahlia and Eliane exchanged some wordless communion in the blink of an eye. Austere as it seemed, a smile touched both of their faces, and no one commented on the addition.

No one, except Leandre. "Grandmother is coming?" he asked Armande.

"Don't worry," Armande answered, quietly, so as not to be overheard. "I believe she intends to keep her fangs to herself."

The ship rocked gently, undulating on peaceful waves and swells to the rhythm of the deep night. The late-summer sky was clear as glass, sapphire and diamond overhead, reeling lazily behind the sails, and a brisk, salty sea wind drifted over the water. And Armande leaned against the rail, looking out on the sea.

He didn't turn when he heard Dahlia approach; she stood a few feet away for a time, saying nothing. When she did join him at the ships' side, it was with no words, no greeting, just a content smile and her usual pensive stillness.

Armande spoke first, as he always did, as he knew he always would. "The children are asleep?"

"Eliane is sitting with Abigail," Dahlia replied, still smiling. "But yes, I imagine both of them will soon be asleep."

Armande huffed, stretching Dahlia's grin further. "Eliane hasn't changed her mind, yet?"

"Not yet. I suppose there is still time before we should assume her decision absolute."

"I suppose so," Armande agreed.

"Thank you for convincing her to come," Dahlia said unexpectedly. "I... if I had never seen her again... I suppose I'm very glad she'll be with us. And that she will not be at the Ainsi for what is to come."

Sharply, Armande glanced down at Dahlia. She was watching out of the corner of her eye.

"How did you...?"

"It was a strange decision," she answered quietly, "to travel across the inland to Marseilles, instead of just taking the coastal road. It added another few weeks of both land and sea travel. The Templars are strong there, still, I am aware. And I saw the documents, the ones that are, as of now, strangely missing. You gave them everything, didn't you?"

Armande nodded, returning his gaze to the water. "I left everything I could think of on the desk of the commanding officer. If they can make nothing of it, then the Templars have grown weaker still than the Assassins."

"You mean to have them destroyed?" Dahlia asked.

"Either destroyed, or honed," Armande answered bitterly. "Those fools cannot continue as they are. As Assassins, it is a disgrace. Perhaps they will stand against the threat. But, more likely, the French Assassins will be forced to start again, and, in doing so, grow strong once more."

"And for that, I am glad that Eliane has chosen to come with us," she repeated.

"You disapprove?"

"No." Her voice was cold, suddenly, with a hard edge of ice. "It must be done. They are too far gone."

Armande smiled darkly, perversely pleased to hear the malice in her voice. "And here I was afraid you would reprimand me."

The harshness melted, and Dahlia raised a teasing eyebrow at him. "Well," she joked, "I think the captain has a good leather belt I can borrow."

Armande laughed out loud.

Silence, then, not uncomfortable. The lack of words and sound was a salve to them both, since, when there was nothing to say, filling the space with talk grew weary. Instead, there was the lick of ocean water batting softly at the hull, the collective rustling of every inch of sail under the moonlight, and the distant murmur of the sailors dicing over a flask of something strong. The silence was a blessing. Armande sighed, knowing that he had, once again, to break it.

He reached under his cloak, to the bag tied at his belt that had dragged at him for over four months. It had never left his side, not for a minute, and it was a pressing concern as to why he was so unwilling to part with it. Dahlia watched warily as he untied the drawstring that held it shut, and the glimmer of gold rose out of the fabric.

The Piece of Eden was no less beautiful that it had been all those months ago when it had slipped from Gerard's dying hand and came to rest at Armande's feet. He had nearly memorized the intricate patterns, though when he learned them, Armande knew not, because he had not removed the Spyglass from its hiding place in all the months he had carried it, for all that it had never left him. The gold flashed in the moonlight, so bright, it almost seemed to generate a glow of its own. Armande held it, feeling the weight of centuries and the smooth-polished temptation of power under his fingers.

"It's unnatural," Dahlia breathed, staring.

"It is," Armande agreed.

"What will you do with it? Return it to the vault?"

To that, he had no answer. After he had berated Richellou so strongly against the keeping of such power, out in the wild, where it was protected only by a few tricks and the hope that no one discovered it? Better to keep it with him, close at hand, where he could protect it himself. But this object would obviously outlive him by a millenium or more; what to do with it when he lay dying? He realized then that he had half-lifted it to his eye. He set it down again, disturbed. Perhaps keeping it near was the worst idea he had. Would he become Gerard?

"I don't know," Armande admitted. He turned the Artifact over and over in his hands, thinking, examining, admiring.

"You could... find out, you know," Dahlia suggested slowly. She was watching him with the Spyglass uneasily, or perhaps she, too, was merely admiring its hypnotic charm.

A shiver dripped down Armande's spine. It surprised him; few things sent a cold rush through him, anymore. But the thought of lifting the Spyglass and using it... now that the possibility was raised, he found himself reluctant to take that path. It filled him with a strange thrill, and a strange dread.

But Dahlia was right; no doubt, he could find the answer to his deadlock in either the past... or the future.

Hesitant, and yet eager, Armande brought the Spyglass up to his eye.

As Dahlia watched, light filled the patterns and scratchings that decorated the Piece of Eden. Alarm, hot and sudden, rushed through her, at the same time that a sublime, almost intangible wave of sound or touch or light or some undefined sensation ranged out from Armande. It was invisible and silent as a spiderweb snapping, yet warm as a dry wind. Dahlia couldn't move, couldn't make herself snatch the Spyglass away from Armande.

And then the night was peaceful again. The sailors with their dice had looked up, as if aware of a sudden change in the tide, but went back to their game a moment later. The water, the moon, the silk-soft breeze was as it had been, as if nothing had happened. And Armande lowered the Spyglass, moving as if his arms were stiff with disuse or pain. He grimaced when they were finally lowered back to rest on the ship's railing.

Dahlia was afraid to ask, but did so regardless. "Did you discover a solution?"

"I believe so," Armande replied, still staring down at the Spyglass. He didn't move for some time. Concerned, Dahlia let him be, aware for the first time of the age he carried as his face drew tight with worry. Thoughts flashed through his mind, she knew, and she couldn't imagine what he had seen in the depths of the Artifact.

He stirred, after what seemed a long, long time. "Do you trust my judgement?"

More concerned than ever, Dahlia nodded. "I do."

Armande nodded, as well, still staring at the Spyglass, almost nodding to himself more than to her. He straightened.

Without a word, Armande wound his arm back and hucked the Piece of Eden into the sea, hurling it out as far as he could. Dahlia was shocked speechless, and watched the place where the Artifact had plunked into the ocean and disappeared as if she didn't fully believe that it had happened.

"Good riddance," Armande muttered, tugging his shirt and vest into place and resuming his position, leaning his arms on the railing and staring out at the horizon.

Dumbfounded, Dahlia spun to face Armande, her calm disappearing for one of the few times he could ever remember. Words failed her. Doubtless, Armande mused, she was so unaccustomed to these feelings of hysteria that when they struck, she found her mouth utterly dysfunctional.

"It is better this way," Armande answered her unspoken question, still watching the sea. Haunting images and sounds, knowledge that he had no business knowing, hung in his mind like old tapestries that no one had bothered to remove, shrouding his thoughts and adding years to him that he knew he would probably never remove again.

"I know myself too well," he continued calmly. His voice was a shadow of its normal condescending growl, however, and that brought Dahlia pause. "What I have seen... I doubt that I could stop myself from looking again, and again. Even now, now that its out of my reach forever, my curiosity burns. And if that knowledge becomes prey to our enemies in this world, I dread the future." He dreaded the future he had seen.

Collecting herself, Dahlia forced herself to see the sense in this.

"I'm just surprised that you would throw it away so willingly," she said tartly.

A harsh chuckle escaped Armande. "Willingly? My entire chest aches with regret. My hands practially burn to have it back. I have a migraine forming. 'Willingly' is not how I threw that thing away. But it had to be done."

She had no response. Guilt, shame at her adolescent reply to his actions, even after she had told him that she trusted his judgement in the matter, left her wordless. He was right, she knew. Dahlia's own reactions were proof that they were better off throwing the Piece of Eden into the middle of the Atlantic than keeping it; it would drive them apart, drive them mad, drive them to do strange, dangerous things. Better see it gone forever.

"How much of it was real?" Armande asked without explanation.

There was a lapse where Dahlia had no idea what he was talking about. Then she nodded, understanding.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I remember the Bastille. I'm fairly certain that I truly did open the inner gate, and maybe even fought my way up to the winch. But after the courtyard, my memory becomes hazy... Knowing what the Spyglass can-could- do, I can't say for certain that anything after I ran out the gate really happened."

"But you remember?"

"I remember falling." Dahlia swallowed dryly, her hand tracing a path up her left side, the side that had been mutilated by the fall. Her hand moved to her abdomen. "I would swear I remember... being cut open across the stomach."

Armande took her hand and pulled it from her abdomen, holding it in his own. "It wasn't real."

"You thought it was," Dahlia replied, sadness filling her eyes.

Armande nodded. "I did. But," he repeated, "it wasn't real."

"Why not?" Dahlia asked, uneasy. "Why the illusion?"

"Gerard wished to hold you hostage," Armande answered, knowing better. Dahlia wasn't fooled.

"With the Spypglass, he had to know it would fail." She looked out at the ocean, thinking. "He knew it wasn't going to work."

Armande sighed heavily, the knowledge weighing on him like the years had begun to. "He did know. As a human, he was ensorcelled by the power of Piece of Eden, believing what he wanted to. But, at some point, he must have come to understand that his plan was doomed."

"So, a last-ditch effort to save himself?"

"Perhaps," Armande shrugged. He glanced sidelong at Dahlia. "Or a last-ditch effort to save me." Armande gave a lung-deep chuckle, as empty as the cloudless night and just as cold. "My Goddamned keeper to the end..."

Speechless for the second time in one night, Dahlia just stared.

"In any case, Gerard is dead." Armande dropped his eyes from her face. "Whatever he intended, his schemes are at an end."

And Dahlia found that to leave the topic alone and let it fade was much easier than pursuing it. The pressing weight of guilt began to shadow her, and she understood easily why Armande preferred to ignore and forget.

They both sat in reflection, lost in their own separate worlds, for some time. Dahlia assumed that, like herself, Armande was pondering the significance of what they had done in Paris, and what he had just done with the Artifact. She was proven wrong when he turned to her with the familiar canine grin.

"You are aware that the captain of a seafaring vessel is ordained the perform marriages?"

Dahlia's heart leapt and constricted at the same time, but she controlled her face as she turned to him, raising an eyebrow. "I am aware. Are you suggesting what I think you are?"

"I believe I am."

"This is sudden," she pointed out, pleased. "I didn't take you for the marrying kind."

"In America, the culture is based on Puritan beliefs," Armande explained. "Mistresses and live-in women to whom one is not wed draw negative attention. And believe me, I am at my limit for negative attention in Boston."

Dahlia's heart sank, though this should not have surprised her. "So, to fit in better in Boston?"

Armande watched her, noting the change in her voice.

"No," he replied. "Because it would make me undeservely happy to have you as my wife."

Her heart leapt again. "Not going to ask Eliane for my hand?" she teased.

"She would be more likely to bite off mine than give me yours," Armande teased right back. "I would rather ask you- what say you? We could be husband and wife by tomorrow afternoon."

"There is one other matter to consider," Dahlia objected lightly.

Armande's grin widened. "Oh?"

"Yes. In the Palais Royale, I said something to you that warrants attention."

Armande knew well of what she spoke. "Ah..." he turned back to the ocean, a wry smile on his lips. "Does it?"

Dahlia nodded, turning her eyes to the ocean as well and propping her chin on one arm. "Not, perhaps, for mere lovers, as we are now. But spouses, on the other hand, that calls for heavier terminology. After all, there should be more than lust and respect between a husband and wife, should there not?"

"Perhaps there should be," Armande agreed. His throat was dry, regardless. He had never said anything of the sort to anyone, ever.

Dahlia realized this with a twinge of chagrin, a moment before he leaned close, drawing her into the circle of one arm and resting his lips close to her ear. Something was said, then, something so hushed that apart from Dahlia herself, the only ones who might have heard were the grinning fish that leapt at the ship's side, and, too soon to ask, disappeared into the depths again with the secret.

A shy smile transformed Dahlia, making her more like the girl she had been all those years ago. "I'm glad we agree on something," she giggled, taking herself by surprise at how light she felt all the sudden. Armande hugged her closer, kissing the top of her head.

"We should get to bed, then," he replied, beside himself with excitement and disbelief that she had agreed. "After all, there is to be a wedding tomorrow."

My name is Armande de Seville, and I am not a good man.

Neither, it seems, am I entirely wicked. It surprises me, as well, to discover that beneath the man I had come to know, there remain a few tattered shreds of something more. I thought I had thrown away all sense of decency, humanism, and feeling. But when the time came that I needed these things, I was relieved beyond measure that I still had them to draw on.

I have never tried to excuse my actions, nor apologize for them. But tonight, with my wife and children and even my deranged mother-in-law close at hand, I realize that I gave up my claim to do as I please for something much more dear. And with this in mind, I know that my life has changed drastically, and that I will have no choice but to change with it, and become a better man than I used to be.

But, I doubt I should change TOO much.

They say you cannot erase past sins. So be it. I have no interest in rewriting the past, as it has made me what I am, and it has put me where I stand, and it has given me what I have. Judge me if you will, but now, at least, you have the whole story, Desmond Miles.

Desmond almost hit the roof, he shot out of bed so abruptly.

"Holy shit, Desmond!" Lucy hissed, putting her gun away. She took a deep breath, regaining her composure. "You scared me half to death!"

"S-sorry," Desmond offered, setting a hand on his forehead. Had that all been real?

"Are you ok?" Lucy asked, all concern. "Are you having nightmares again?"

Was Desmond having nightmares? A nightmare was something fake, right? Had that been false?

"Yeah," he agreed slowly, uncertain. "Just a bad dream. Sorry I scared you. Night."


End file.
